


Requiem in D Minor

by pancakezrule



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski are the Same Age, F/M, M/M, Nerd Derek Hale, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Scott is a Good Friend, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Small Towns, Tags Contain Spoilers, Teen Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Violinist Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-03-07 03:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18865081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancakezrule/pseuds/pancakezrule
Summary: Derek might be a freak, but that doesn’t stop anyone from staring at him as if he’s a deer caught in the crosshairs. Stiles can practically see Lydia cocking her gun, and Jackson loading the barrel with another bullet.But Derek just keeps walking, the wolf keychain on his violin case jingling in the almost silent hallway.





	1. Introitus

**Author's Note:**

> If this trope seems kind of familiar, that's because I've been obsessed with Beautiful Creatures by Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl since, like, middle school, so obviously I have to make a bastardized Teen Wolf version. Hence the (loosely based) Beautiful Creatures fic you're about to read. Don't worry if you haven't read the books/seen the movie, I'm not, like, completely ripping off my childhood hero's work. 
> 
> Anyway, I took the liberty of moving Beacon Hills to Tennesee, because I've been kind of obsessed with Stiles having this adorable southern accent, and because that's where I'm from. 
> 
> The title/titles of each chapter are derived from Mozart's Requiem, which I do not own. I also don't own Teen Wolf or any of the characters.
> 
> As always, read the tags, and pay attention to the word count here. It's gonna be a long ride.

Ash. The night sky is full of ash.

_“Stiles!”_

He’s falling, tumbling through the scorching air. The voice rumbles around him, almost a growl, causing the silvery grey particles of ash to dance in the night sky.

Stiles swings his arms wildly at his sides, trying to catch onto something, anything to stop his fall. He feels the heat below him get impossibly closer, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling with the growing sense of danger, of death.

_“Hold onto me!”_

Stiles stretches out his arms, reaching blindly for the man. All he can catch is air. Flames singe the sleeves of his hoodie, but the air quivers around him with a deep growl when he tries to pull his arms back.

_“Stiles!”_

Still, they’re falling, rocketing towards the flames.

Their fingertips touch in the darkness, then he’s gone. Stiles watches as the thick, calloused fingers slip away from him.

They are falling, always falling.

And Stiles can never catch him.

 

...

 

Some people dream about showing up to school without pants on. Some people dream about hot, steamy sex with the love of their life.

Stiles dreams about dying.

He’s checked out multiple books from the library, spent countless hours scouring the internet, and hung exactly fourteen dreamcatchers around his room— not the cheap Dollar Store ones either, but real, genuine Native American dreamcatchers.

Nothing he does seems to make the dream go away.

The alarm clock on his bedside table rings, loud and insistent, and for a moment Stiles wishes he was still asleep. He’d rather deal with falling to his imminent doom than one more day of high school.

He blinks his eyes open slowly, a groan forming deep within his chest. It’s still dark out, but the gaps in his blinds let an artificial orange light spill into the room from the streetlight outside.

Stiles hits the alarm as hard as he can, knocking it off the bedside table. He rolls over and tugs his pillow over his head, trying to cut himself out of the world around him. Downstairs, he hears the Keurig clank to life, and he can hear his dad shuffling around.

And, faintly, he can still hear the alarm clock ringing from its new spot under his bed. Stiles drops one hand under the bed, reaching blindly for the clock. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can make it disintegrate with just his mind.

But he’s never been that lucky.

Stiles finally yanks the clock’s plug from the wall as he hears a knock at his door. One god-awful noise down, a fuck-ton more to go.

“Go away!” Stiles shouts into his mattress as he tightens his grip on the pillow over his head. “I’m not going!”

He hears the door click as it opens, the swollen wood groaning on its hinges. His room is always hot and damp, and no matter how high he sets his fan or how long he keeps his window shut, Stiles can’t seem to get the stickiness of Tennessee summer out.

Stiles’ dad yanks the pillow from his grip, and Stiles nearly flails his way off the bed in protest.

He flaps his hands indignantly at his sides, glaring at his dad with what he hopes is the most heated, hateful scowl ever mustered.

“I said I’m not going.”

His dad is not fazed. “You’re going. It’s your senior year, Stiles.”

Channeling his inner Death Eater, Stiles tries again, bunching up his eyebrows this time as he glares at his dad. But he doesn’t flinch, and he doesn’t give Stiles back his pillow, either.

“Get dressed. Scott’ll be here at seven.”

Stiles makes a note to work on his Death Eater glare as his dad leaves.

He scrubs a hand over his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s so fucking _tired_. He even made a point to go to bed _early_ , he has no reason to wake up so exhausted. Especially on his first day back at school, when he has to deal with dumbass teachers all day.

Stiles groans and shoves his blankets off, fighting with the tangled sheets around his ankles as he fumbles out of bed. When did sleeping get so hard? Stiles shoots a pointed look at every single dreamcatcher hanging around his room.

“Fuck you guys.”

He has been having the dream for months now. Every time he closes his eyes, it’s the same. It doesn’t matter if Stiles takes two Benadryl tablets to zonk out, or if he watches _Paranormal Activity 3_ with his best friend Scott before bed. He doesn’t have any drug-induced fever dreams like he used to, and there are no demon jumpscares sprinkled into the mix.

It’s always the same— the same ash covering his skin, the same falling sensation, and the same hand reaching out to him. _Fuck_.

Maybe he’s going crazy.

Stiles makes his way to his closet, batting one of the dreamcatchers he hung on the cord of his ceiling fan. He eyes the haphazard pile of books strewn across his desk, each of them dealing with the physiological and psychological reasoning behind dreams.

Yeah, he’s probably going crazy.

“Mieczysław Stilinski!” His dad yells from the kitchen, cutting Stiles’ existential crisis short. “You best be out of that bed!”

The _“Or else I’ll tan your hide”_ is left unsaid, but still, Stiles winces and hastily throws open his closet door. “I’m movin’, dad!”

He grabs his usual t-shirt, hoodie, and jeans, tugging them on as he stumbles into the bathroom. Stiles pokes at his hair, trying to get it to lay flat-ish on his head, but it always seems to have a mind of its own. He sighs as he yanks a comb through the strands, wrangling the bed head into something decent.

Maybe he should buzz his hair again. He had stopped wearing it so short once he got into high school, but hey, he’s a senior. He’s going to college soon. And isn’t college supposed to be a time for changes or some shit?

A jarring boom of thunder rattles the house, and Stiles almost drops the comb under the sink in surprise. He dares a glance out the bathroom window, watching as the glass is patterned with fat raindrops.

It’s the middle of August. Storm season is usually over by now.

“Stiles!”

“I’m comin’!”

Stiles shoves his comb in the medicine cabinet, giving up on the disastrous state of his hair. It’ll just get rained on, anyway.

He takes the stairs two at a time, patting his pockets to make sure his phone and wallet made the trek down the stairs with him.

“You know,” he starts, tugging his phone free from his back pocket. “I’d be able to sleep a whole thirty-minutes later if you’d let me drive Roscoe to school.”

Stiles’ dad just slides a faded orange bowl of grits across the breakfast table. He knows, deep down, it’s not that his dad doesn’t trust him with the Jeep. Roscoe is just, for lack of a better term, a piece of shit. But she is a piece of shit that means everything to Stiles.

Stiles plops down in his seat, shoveling a spoonful of grits out of his bowl. He thumbs through his phone, ignoring the pointed look his dad is giving him. _No phones at the table_ was his mom’s rule, but Stiles’s dad is never good at enforcing it anymore.

Kind of ironic, Stiles thinks. He’s the sheriff of the town, his job is literally to enforce rules, but he can’t ever seem to keep things straight in his own house.

But it’s not his fault. Nothing has been the same since his mom died, anyway.

“You wanna tell me why you put up such a fight this morning?” Stiles’ dad asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

Stiles shrugs, pushing his grits around the bowl with his spoon.

“I always put up a fight.”

His dad just grunts, taking his seat across the table from Stiles. The morning paper is already flipped open to the sports section, and Stiles knows his dad is about a paragraph away from being completely oblivious to the world around him.

“Honestly,” Stiles pauses, watching his dad continue to read the paper. “I’ve been having these nightmares, and it kinda seems like the universe is telling me to stay in bed.”

His dad nods, takes another sip of coffee, and flips the page. “Mmhm.”

“I think the universe is out to get me.”

“Mmhm.”

“Scott and I are gonna shoot up the school later on, if you wanna warn the deputies in advance.”

“That’s nice.”

Stiles is halfway through his breakfast of champions when he hears a car honk in his driveway. He smiles at his dad with his mouth full, quickly shoveling down the rest of his grits. His dad just hands him a bottle of water, already lost in the day’s paper.

“He’s late.”

Stiles shrugs, tossing his ratty black backpack over his shoulder and sliding the water bottle in the cup holder pocket. Scott’s never late. But as he glances at the electric clock on the stove, the green numbers blink back at him in a silent warning. _7:05._

Scott’s late. _Shit._

His dad hollers at him as he runs for the door, not looking up from his coffee and paper. “Tell Scott I said hi, and make sure his momma knows we are paying them back for gas money this year.”

Stiles waves over his shoulder as he runs out on the porch. He pats the hood of his Jeep in a good morning gesture, wiping off a puddle of rain with his palm. The clouds above him rattle dangerously, and Stiles has half a mind to book it to Scott’s car before a torrential downpour ruins his half-assed hairstyle.

Scott’s car is in the driveway, motor sputtering angrily. If he didn’t know better, Stiles almost swears the car can sense emotions because Scott? Scott is pissed. Like, really pissed. The two of them had ridden to school together since Scott moved to Beacon Hills in the first grade, and Scott had never been late. _Never._

Never until today, apparently.

“I’m sorry,” Scott blurts, fumbling to unlock the passenger door for Stiles. “I’m sorry. I’m the worst best friend ever, but _Rafael_ called, and mom—”

Scott cuts himself off with a low grunt and doesn’t let up his glare as he punches the gear-shift into reverse, tires squealing on the wet asphalt beneath him. Stiles just nods in understanding. Scott’s deadbeat dad, Rafael, usually calls about once a month to let his mom know the child support is in the mail.

It never works out well for anyone.

The sky is a strange greenish-orange color, clouds tipping a few raindrops onto the ground below. Stiles wipes his palms on his jeans, picking at the skin beneath his fingernails. Scott is good at shutting everyone out when his dad calls, but Stiles is even better at filling in the silence.

“Last night I watched Bambi, and dude, I’m pretty sure I’m going to write my AP Lit essay over it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for little woodland creatures finding love and making babies or whatever, but I can’t stand how the girl animals are animated. They gave the rabbit tits, Scott. _Tits._ On a _rabbit._ ” Stiles takes a deep breath, running his hand down the side of his face.

“I couldn’t believe it. And all the girl animals were, like, _smooth_ and shit. Like, they had fewer whiskers or fur or whatever. And they were a different color, like, a prettier color.”

Scott nudges a box of stale doughnuts towards Stiles with one hand, his shoulders slowly relaxing as Stiles talks. Stiles grabs a doughnut from the box, pretending not to notice as the white of Scott’s knuckles slowly fades to their normal color.

“I mean, peacocks! The _male_ peacocks are the pretty ones. The peahens are ugly so they blend in with the environment. The girls are _supposed_ to be, like, ugly. They’re in charge of making babies and letting the species continue to thrive!”

“Is that why you’re so ugly this morning?”

Stiles snorts, flicking some of his congealed icing in Scott’s direction. “No, dumbass. My dad says hi, by the way. And he said to tell Melissa we are paying you guys back this year.”

Scott grunts, using his thumb to wipe away the icing on his cheek. “Nuh-uh, I don’t make the rules. Whatever momma says, goes.” And, apparently, Melissa McCall only ever says that the Stilinskis _can’t_ repay them _ever_. “Sorry I didn’t stay, but we’re late. We’re never late.”

“No,” Stiles takes a bite of the stale doughnut and grimaces. He can’t remember the last time they had stopped at the gas station for breakfast. “ _You’re_ never late. I, on the other hand, am usually late.”

“Not on my watch,” Scott grumbles, veering right. Stiles braces his leg against the car door and grabs another doughnut from the box. Stiles only lives seven streets from Beacon Hills High, but to Scott, it must seem like an eternity.

Stiles glances at the speedometer, clicking his tongue in appreciation. “‘Atta boy, speeding with the sheriff's kid in your car.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Scott sighs, flicking on the car’s windshield wipers as the rain starts to pick up. The droplets tap on the glass, almost in perfect synchronization with the song on the radio. “Late for the first day back. My mom’s gonna kill us, revive us, and then kill us again.”

“I’m pretty sure she has other things to worry ‘bout,” Stiles says, dragging his tongue along the top of his doughnut in an attempt to get the sprinkles off. Who puts sprinkles on doughnuts? Demons, that’s who.

Demons and, apparently, Scott.

Stiles opens his mouth to tell Scott how bad his taste in breakfast pastries is when he spots a car out of the corner of his eye. For a second, everything seems to slow down as Stiles stares, wide-eyed, at the sleek black Camaro that slides past them.

He doesn’t recognize that car. Stiles has spent his entire childhood at the police station, has almost memorized every single registered vehicle in the filing cabinets in the Sheriff's office, and he doesn’t recognize that car.

Stiles shifts in his seat, watching as the car speeds up in the opposite direction. Maybe they’re a tourist, cutting through the town on their way back from Nashville. Maybe they’re lost. Maybe it’s an omen, and Stiles really _should_ have stayed home today.

And then, just as soon as it appears, the car is gone.

 

…

 

They roll into the school parking lot five minutes late, and, because it’s just Stiles’ luck today, Coach Finstock is already standing guard at the big double doors. Stiles curses under his breath and barely has time to shield his phone from the rain before they’re both running for the school. By the time they get into the building, he’s completely soaked through. There was really no need to fight with his hair this morning.

“Stilinski. McCall. You boys are late.”

“Coach!” Stiles grins up at the man, dripping all over the linoleum floors. “Scott was just drivin’ slow, you know, because of the rain.”

He gestures outside, where the storm continues to drop unrelenting sheets of rain onto the parking lot.

“You don’t want to get in a crash with the sheriff’s kid, ya’know?”

Scott nods in agreement, shaking the rain from his hair before flashing his best innocent look at their lacrosse coach. He goes the full nine yards, softening his eyes into the best goddamn puppy-dog look Stiles has ever seen. But Coach Finstock just crosses his arms over his chest and stares back at the both of them, uncharmed.

“I should give the both of you detention, but I think you’ll be able to make it up at practice.”

Stiles loves being on the lacrosse team. He’s actually kind of good at it when he gets to play. He loves being a part of something, and being on the team gives him an automatic seat at lunch. Lunch is basically wild kingdom at Beacon Hills High, and anyone caught without a designated seat is doomed to be preyed on by the cheerleaders.

Stiles loves lacrosse (and has a crushing fear of the cheerleaders), but he hates the coach with a burning passion, more than a thousand suns, yaddah-yaddah. Last time he got detention, the hour of silence in the library was replaced with ten rounds of bleacher runs.

Stiles swears he can still taste the rust in the back of his mouth. He gets war flashbacks. It was that bad. He grimaces at the reminder, and the coach must take it the wrong way because all of a sudden there’s a pink slip being tossed at his head.

“Or maybe just you, Stilinski.”

Fuck. Stiles’ bad luck just keeps getting worse.

 

…

In Beacon Hills, the first day back to school never really changes.

The teachers know everyone’s business, and if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get one who _wasn’t_ invited to your baby shower and who hasn’t seen your naked ass on display in your baby book. There are no introductions and no awkward ice-breaker games. Stiles has been with the same group of kids since preschool. There’s really no need.

His day starts with first-period AP Lit, where they were supposed to read some dumbass Faulkner book over summer break. Stiles didn’t.

He’s got a hard enough time trying to focus on these ancient books when they’re actually written well. Stiles has no idea how he’s expected to pay attention to a book that doesn’t go in order, and that skips around in time without any warning, and that has, like, _one_ period on the whole page.

Run-on sentences can be neat. They can be a stylistic choice.

They should _never_ be the entire fucking book. Period.

So, of course, he flunks his very first AP Lit quiz. Because it’s multiple choice. And because the gods of fate enjoy shitting on him.

Really, _What color were the buttons on Caddy’s coat?_ Stiles is pretty sure even if he had read the book, there was no way he could have remembered that.

Chemistry isn’t much better. Mr. Harris has had it out for Stiles since freshman year, and no amount of “ _I’m the sheriff's kid_ ” seemed to matter to him. To top things off, this year Harris stuck Stiles right in the front row, and he didn’t let anyone pick their own lab partners. He’s with Stiles-Hating Lydia, who has been successfully ignoring the fact that Stiles exists since elementary school.

Stiles even debated trying out for the cheerleading team sophomore year, just so that she’d have a reason to acknowledge his existence. Perfect Lydia, with her perfect strawberry-blonde hair, and her perfect top-of-the-pyramid pose.

It’s actually kind of a good thing Stiles is friends with Scott, or else he’d probably be shunned by the entire school for showing up to cheerleading tryouts for something _other_ than ogling the new freshman girls. There’s got to be a special place for Scott up in heaven somewhere. It takes a saint to put up with years of genuine Stilinski bad ideas.

And there’s got to be a special place in hell for Harris, because honestly, this seating chart eats ass.

Scott has to sit right behind him, and Stiles is, under no circumstances, to turn around and talk to him. Or else he’ll get detention. And have to complete ungodly amounts of bleacher runs. Again.

Seriously, fuck his life.

Scott leans forward in his seat when Harris paces to the back of the room, close enough to whisper to Stiles and (hopefully) not get caught.

“Did you hear about the new kid?”

Stiles stops what he’s writing and jams his pen in his mouth. He glances around the room, making sure Harris is not in his peripheral vision before he shakes his head no. A new kid wouldn’t be a big deal anywhere else, but in Beacon Hills, it’s sure to make the evening radio by supper.

In Beacon Hills, everyone knows everyone. And everyone knows everyone else’s business. It used to be a running joke that Betty at the post office read everyone’s mail. Now they’re all lucky if she bothers to seal the envelopes back up after. It’s not that big of a deal, Stiles thinks. Nothing ever happens in Beacon Hills.

The biggest news is still the fact that the McCalls moved in during Stiles’ first-grade year. The ladies still gossip about Melissa and Rafael during afternoon coffee, and Stiles is pretty sure Melissa _still_ hasn’t been invited to their weekly bridge game.

“I’ve got first period with the band geeks. They all said he plays the violin or somethin’ like that.”

“Valproic acid can treat epilepsy.” Harris walks back up to the front of the room, drawing a crude Lewis structure on the chalkboard. His pit stains are on full display to the whole class. That, combined with his greasy comb-over, leaves Stiles completely bewildered as to how he’s still single.

“Can anyone identify the functional group in the molecule?”

Stiles shoots his hand up, the pen falling from his mouth. Stiles-Hating Lydia also raises her hand, pointedly not looking in his direction as she answers, smooth as melted butter, without even being called on.

“Carboxylic acid.”

“Correct. And does anyone know it’s conjugate base?”

Stiles raises his hand again, nearly toppling out of his seat. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s chemistry. But Harris doesn’t call on him, his icy gaze falls right past Stiles and lands just beyond his shoulder.

“How about you, McCall? Since you have such a strong urge to talk during class, I assume you know the answer.”

Stiles can hear Scott clear his throat nervously behind him. He doesn’t need to see Harris’ face to know that there’s a detention slip waiting.

At least it’s Scott this time. He has asthma, and Coach Finstock never makes him do more than two bleacher runs.

 

…

 

“So, did y’all hear about the new kid?” Stiles-Hating Lydia sits down on Jackson Whittemore’s lap during lunch, practically melting all over his front. Jackson is the captain of the lacrosse team, and Stiles-Hating Lydia’s on-again, off-again boyfriend.

They must be on, because Jackson’s hand slides its way up the smooth skin of her creamy white thigh and disappears underneath her unbelievably short cheerleading skirt. Stiles nearly chokes on his peas as her skirt is hitched up higher, and Scott has to pat him on the back to get him breathing again.

Lydia might hate Stiles, but Stiles has been in love with her since, like, forever. And apparently, no amount of hatred on her part can quell his interest. Scott says it’s unhealthy, and Stiles should work on crushing on people who actually give a shit about him.

Stiles says Scott can go fuck himself.

“Scott was fillin’ us in.”

Jackson’s thumb rubs small circles on the exposed part of Lydia’s thigh. Stiles doesn’t know where to look, so he busies himself with the peas on his plate. It’s not like he’s really part of this conversation, anyway. When Lydia’s around, he seems to stop existing.

“Yeah,” Scott says, stealing a chicken nugget off Stiles’ plate. “He’s in the band and plays somethin’ with strings.”

“Guitar?” Lydia tilts her head to the side, resting her temple on the side of Jackson’s head. “That’s kind’a hot, maybe he’ll look good on the team.”

Stiles glances up to see Jackson’s nostrils flare in response. The captain shoots a pointed look at Scott as he shakes his head.

“Nah, more like the violin.”

“Huh.” Lydia wrinkles her nose up as she shakes her head. Her strawberry-blonde curls bounce slightly, but somehow they still fall perfectly around her face.

Stiles shovels another mouthful of peas into his mouth to keep from swooning. How can one person be so perfect? She’s probably a robot or something. Stiles will have to look into that later if the library lets him check out any more books.

Lydia shifts in Jackson’s lap, leaning a little bit too far over the table. If her shirt was cut any lower, Stiles is almost certain her boobs would just fall right out and land in his peas.

“Did Scott tell y’all _who_ he is?”

She pauses for dramatic effect, her eyes flickering across the table. Who he is? Stiles sets his fork down and leans back in his seat, watching how the rest of the table shifts in interest. Lydia makes sure she has everyone’s attention before continuing.

“He’s Peter Hale’s nephew.”

Lydia doesn’t need to pause this time, because the entire table falls into silence. It’s like all the air has been sucked out of the lunch room as everyone at the table stares at her, slack-jawed and unbelieving. Scott starts to laugh a little, like maybe Lydia is kidding. But Stiles knows better. Lydia doesn’t kid.

Peter Hale, the town shut-in, lives down Old Short Mountain Road in the creepiest house still standing in Beacon Hills. Stiles is pretty sure every house in town grew up around the forest, probably just shooting up next to the oak trees and taking root along with the shrubbery. Stiles knows that generations of families have lived in the same houses, have died in the same houses, since way before Stiles was born. But the old Hale house? That one is probably the most haunted, and the most run-down of them all.

No one would ever take a dare to step foot on Old Short Mountain Road, much less approach the old Hale house.

Rumor has it that Peter Hale killed his entire family, then ate them slowly over the course of a few years.

Rumor has it that Peter Hale is a mass murderer, and he hides the bodies of his victims in the woods around his house.

Rumor has it that Peter Hale has been dead for years, and now his ghost haunts the property and will massacre anyone who trespasses.

Honestly, no one really knows anything about Peter Hale. He hasn’t been seen outside his house since before Scott moved to town in the first grade. And, if he really thinks about it, Stiles can’t remember seeing Peter Hale before then, either.

That’s one of the things Stiles hates about Beacon Hills. No one really knows anything, but _rumor has it_.

“Are you serious?” Scott blinks a couple of times, looking at Stiles like maybe he has all the answers in the world.

He doesn’t. But apparently, Lydia’s mom does.

“Of course I’m serious. My momma heard it from her hair lady, who heard it from Betty at the post office, who said she saw the kid herself.”

Fucking Betty at the post office. Of course. Stiles should have guessed.

Small towns, right?

“He moved here from Oregon, or California, or whatever.” Lydia shrugs, leaning back into Jackson again. She seems satisfied that she’s the only one who knows the truth about the new kid, that she gets to be part of the he-said, she-said story.

Stiles just sits there, staring at his peas swimming in their lime-green pool of liquid. He can hear his teammates talking about this kid they haven’t ever met, about how weird it is that he plays the violin, and how much of a freak he probably is since he’s related to Peter Hale.

But that’s just how things are in Beacon Hills. Everyone has something to say about you, even if you’ve never met.

A part of Stiles can’t wait to graduate and get the hell out of there.

 

…

 

By the time school lets out, the storm clouds have, thankfully, stopped pissing all over Beacon Hills. Stiles tugs on his lacrosse jersey, his bag slung over his shoulder at an angle that doesn’t jam his stick awkwardly between his shoulder blades.

It really shouldn’t have taken him until senior year to learn how to properly carry his bag, but hey, he’s usually distracted before practice. The cheerleaders take over the gym after school, and the lacrosse team just _happens_ to walk through the gym on the way to the practice field. It’s not the most efficient way out there, but Stiles is pretty sure Jackson likes to show off his girlfriend to the team.

And why wouldn’t he? Stiles-Hating Lydia is the perfect top to the pyramid, and she’s won the school an all-state award since freshman year for her double back-tuck basket toss. Stiles is almost certain she’s not human. There’s no way a human can do that many flips and _not_ barf all over the floor.

Once again, robot.

“Dude, I’m serious,” Stiles drops his bag on the bleachers and tugs his detention slip free from the side pocket. “They probably won’t let me check out anything until I return the books I already have. But I’m pretty sure there’s a book on genetically-enhanced human experiments along the back wall, and I need you to... Scott? Are you listening?”

“Mmhm.”

“Oh yeah? What did I just say?”

“Genetically-enhanced humans.” Scott blinks over at him, his own detention slip in hand. “But I already told ’ya, I’m not checking it out. The librarian will have my momma on the phone in a hot second, and I’m pretty sure she’s still onto me about the whole _porn-fiasco_ that happened last year.”

Yeah, the porn-fiasco. Because sweet, sweet Scott doesn’t have his own laptop, and he thought the best place to watch porn was on the library’s free-to-use desktops. Sometimes, it’s hard being the brains of the duo.

“Stilinski!”

Coach Finstock’s sneakers splash across the track, the cracked pavement collecting water from the earlier downpour. Stiles really can’t wait for these bleacher runs. Maybe the bleachers will be really wet, and maybe he’ll slip, and maybe—

“You best get on runnin’.” Finstock snatches the pink slip from Stiles’ hand, waving it in the air in front of his face. “There’s at least ten on here, and I’m not holding up practice for you.”

The coach grabs Scott’s slip too, pointing him in the direction of the boys already lining up on the practice field. “And you get to be goalie. Get out there, and I swear to god if a ball gets past you, you’ll be doing bleacher runs with Stilinski. I don’t care about your ass’ma.”

“Asthma.” Stiles grunts, starting his trek up the bleachers stairs.

Thankfully, only Scott hears him. He shoots Stiles a terrified glance as Finstock practically pushes him onto the field. Scott’s good at lacrosse, but he’s a pretty shitty goalie. Stiles would feel bad for him, maybe, if he wasn’t, like, _dying_ on the bleachers.

Stiles makes it back down the other side of the bleachers, and up again. Running isn’t that bad if he just focuses on the slap of his shoes on the metal bleachers. He downs three more rounds before his legs start wobbling underneath him. Fucking bleacher runs.

Stiles is starting on his fifth round when he hears a car door slam. Everyone’s usually gone by the time practice starts. He finishes climbing the stairs with a grunt and nearly doubles over after the last stair. He lifts his head when he gets to the top, raising one hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead as he looks past the side of the school.

He sees a flash of black hair behind the wheel of a sleek black car.

The Camaro.

Stiles freezes, staring wide-eyed at the car. He knew he hadn’t seen that car before. He knew it wasn’t just a tourist.

Peter Hale’s nephew stares back at Stiles. Or at least, Stiles thinks he’s staring at him. It’s hard to tell from a distance, and the guy’s got some seriously dark sunglasses on. He is gorgeous, his face shadowed, all sharp lines and a pair of impressively expressive eyebrows raised above the sunglasses.

Stiles stands there, staring as the car pulls away. His hair hangs down over his forehead, sticking to the sweat along his brow. Part of Stiles’ mind tells him he should keep going, keep doing the fucking bleacher runs, because he has to finish before practice is over. But the bigger, more insistent part is telling him that he’s gotta keep staring, gotta figure out more about the weird kid, like his life depends on it.

“Stilinski!”

Fuck. Stiles doesn’t even need to turn around to know that Finstock stopped the entire practice to yell at him. He straightens up slowly, using the hem of his jersey to wipe at the sweat on his face before he continues to run.

He can do this. He just has to finish his run, toss the ball around a couple times with Scott, and then he’ll be home-free. Scott’ll be stuck with him the entire drive home, and Stiles can tell him about how he saw the new kid. He can totally do this.

It’ll be fine.

 

…

 

It’s not fine.

“I’m tellin’ you, he was staring right at me.”

Scott looks mildly horrified, and Stiles doesn’t have enough time in the world to try and process the shift in emotions that take over his face in the next few seconds. They’re parked in Stiles’ driveway, the storm has picked back up, and Stiles is pretty sure Scott is having an existential crisis.

Which, by the way, is not fair. If anyone should be having an existential crisis, it should definitely be Stiles. He’s the one who’s probably got a bigass target above his head now.

“Maybe…” Scott scrunches up his eyebrows and pulls his keys from the ignition. “Maybe the dead bodies aren’t in the woods. Maybe they transport them back to California, or wherever the kid is from.”

Stiles shoots him a horrified look.

“I don’t care _where_ they hide the bodies!” Stiles all but shrieks, flapping his hands at his sides. “That’s not the important part!”

The important part is that Stiles is probably maybe definitely going to be murdered in his sleep, and Scott is absolutely no help at all. His best friend just gives Stiles a pathetic little shrug, and that’s totally helpful, thanks, Scott.

There’s a tap on Scott’s passenger window, and Stiles does not scream, because he’s stronger than that, thank you. He does hold his breath in trepidation as he turns his head, but it’s just his dad staring at them in the rain.

“You boys gonna come in, or should I leave supper out here for y’all?”

Scott is out of the car before Stiles can even respond. If it wasn’t for the fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and biscuits sitting inside waiting for them, Stiles might have judged him a little bit harder. But it’s hard to judge when Monday’s are the only day of the week deputy Parrish brings dinner for the sheriff.

And Stiles is a sucker for some good fried chicken, even if it does mean his dad’s arteries get a little bit more clogged.

He’ll just make sure he’s home before his dad tomorrow. He’ll make him a veggie burger or something. Maybe.

Scott is already shoveling mashed potatoes in his mouth when Stiles gets inside. He drops his damp backpack by the door and toes off his shoes.

Stiles’ dad passes him a plate, already flipping through a case file at the dinner table. Stiles tries to read the file over his dad’s shoulder, but his dad just raps his pencil against the table cloth and points the sharp end towards Stiles’ designated seat.

“You never let me help,” Stiles all but pouts, flopping down in his chair.

“They don’t pay me enough to let you help.” A pause, then, “I heard you were late for school today.”

Scott muffles a laugh into his napkin. Stiles kicks him under the table. His dad doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t comment on it. He just jabs his pencil in Stiles’ direction, looking between Stiles and Scott over the rim of his glasses.

“It was rainin’,” Stiles starts, scooping up a spoonful of potatoes. “You don’t want us speeding in the rain, do you? We could’a died, dad!”

His dad’s expression softens just a little bit as he goes back to the file in his hand. “The radio says it’s gonna be a long storm season, so the both of ‘ya better figure out how to make it to school on time.”

“Yessir.”

“Yessir.” Stiles lifts his drumstick in the air, gesturing with it across the table at his dad. “Did you know there’s a new kid in our class?”

“You think I don’t know about Derek Hale?”

Stiles almost chokes on his chicken with the easy way his dad just drops that name around, as if it means nothing. As if the whole town isn’t bustling with the news of a brand-new mass murderer, or kidnapper, or whatever moving in.

“Derek,” Stiles says awkwardly, staring at his dad over the tip of his drumstick.  “That’s his name?”

Stiles’ dad just grunts, fully focusing on the case at hand. He sits there, spinning his pencil on the table, frown on his face. Stiles almost misses the quiet _“It’s non’a y’all’s business”_ , drowned out with a loud clap of thunder. But he can’t get it out of his head. The sleek black car, the windows tinted too dark to see inside, the way the kid stared at him from the parking lot.

It’s none of his business, Stiles knows, but he can’t stop thinking about it.

 

…

 

Apparently, no one else can stop thinking about it either. Before the first bell even rings at school the next day, Derek Hale is all anyone can talk about. Stiles can hear whispers of _Hale_ in the parking lot, sees people glance around awkwardly in the hallway, and knows there’s shit going down when Stiles-Hating Lydia and Jackson Whittemore are standing guard outside his locker.

“Hey,” Stiles greets them, turning the dial on the lock. “Fancy seein’ y’all here.”

Neither of them give him the time of day.

“Did your momma tell you any more news?” Lydia asks Scott, twirling a strand of her hair around her index finger.

Scott’s mom works at the only hospital in town. If there happened to be a teenage girl who went missing and was found murdered in the past 24-hours, Scott’s mom was sure to know. And, obviously, Stiles’ dad, the _sheriff_ , but no one cares to ask Stiles anything anymore.

Something about him taking forever to get to the point.

He blames it on his ADHD and doesn’t take it personally.

“No,” Scott says with a smile, all fake honey and sweetness. Scott sure knows how to put on the charm around people when it matters. Maybe Stiles should be taking notes.

Last night after supper, Lydia’s momma had called up every lady she plays bridge with. News spread like wildfire about Derek Hale, crazy Peter’s estranged nephew, driving around Beacon Hills in the old Camaro everyone is pretty sure is haunted. Or maybe it’s been used in a murder. Or maybe they transport the dead bodies in the back.

Stiles can’t keep up anymore, but whatever, he’s trying, because from there it just gets wilder.

If there’s a story to tell in town, Lydia’s mom is at the center of it. A new guy in town, moving into the haunted Hale house with his uncle who is most likely an axe murderer, now that’s a story. It’s probably bigger than the nasty, newly-divorced mother and her son who moved to town, and boy, that story is _still_ going around. So Stiles isn’t really surprised to find that Lydia’s mom (and, subsequently, Lydia) inserted herself right in the middle of the action.

“Momma said—”

Stiles doesn’t need to look up to know why Lydia stopped talking. Even if he hadn’t heard the whispers, he’d have known something is up. Because the crammed, noisy hallway is suddenly still, and everyone practically glues themselves against the lockers.

Stiles dares a glance over his shoulder, watching as the students all but dive out of Derek Hale’s way as he walks down the hall, like he’s got some sort of transmissible disease or something.

But Stiles doesn’t see anyone with, like, bunions or open wounds or anything like that. He sees a tall guy with a leather jacket, dressed in varying shades of black and grey, with a pair of dorky _glasses_ sliding down the bridge of his nose, and honestly, where were the glasses yesterday in the car? Were they underneath the sunglasses? Or does he have a pair of prescription sunglasses?

Stiles just stares as Derek walks past them with his head down, like no one in the hallway even exists. He watches as he stares down at the sheet of paper in one hand, probably his schedule, and Stiles spots a small black case in his other hand. It’s probably his violin, Stiles thinks absently, staring at the little wolf keychain on the handle.

Derek glances up at Stiles for what feels like a millisecond before he focuses on his schedule again, and Stiles can’t figure out what color his eyes are. Blue? Green? He’s pretty sure it’s some kind of brand-new color, because Stiles has never seen anyone with eyes that color before.

“He’s kinda hot,” Lydia says softly, adjusting her off-the-shoulder top so it stops riding up around her neck. “If you ignore the fact that he’s a freak.”

Jackson slides his arm easily around her waist, and on any other day, Stiles would just let them fuck off to their respected class. He’d be content to shove his AP Lit books in his bag and sit through an hour of boring-ass Faulkner. But it’s something about the way Lydia says it, or maybe it’s the fact that Scott and Jackson just nod, like it’s true, even though no one even _knows_ him, that’s got Stiles all riled up.

“Why’s he a freak? ‘Cause he’s new?”

“Dude,” Scott eyes him warily, shouldering his backpack and closing his own locker with his hip. “‘Cause he’s Peter Hale’s nephew.”

And that is that. Stiles just nods, following Scott’s lead, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. Lydia doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s spoken, and Jackson leads her by the waist to their first period.

Derek might be a freak, but that doesn’t stop anyone from staring at him as if he’s a deer caught in the crosshairs. Stiles can practically see Lydia cocking her gun, and Jackson loading the barrel with another bullet.

But Derek just keeps walking, the wolf keychain on his violin case jingling in the almost silent hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mozart's Introitus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Rc25CkOxEk)


	2. Kyrie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super late update. I came down with a really nasty upper respiratory infection, and I've been doped up on some lethal amounts of narcotic cough syrup for the past couple of days.
> 
> I'll try to stick to a once-a-week updating schedule.

Stiles is still standing in the doorway when the tardy bell rings at 7:20, but he can’t find it in himself to move any farther. Because right there, in the front of his AP Lit class, is Derek Hale, the new kid, in the flesh.

He’s standing there, all dark, tight jeans and unruly eyebrows, with his yellow transfer slip, trying to convince Mrs. English that yes, he’s really supposed to be in the class, and honestly? What the fuck?

What has Stiles’ life come to?

Stiles just stares between his designated seat and the only other empty one next to it, then between Mrs. English’s saggy neck flaps and the back of Derek Hale’s head. He’s really about to sit next to the new kid and get all the new kid gossip, and Stiles-Hating Lydia will _have_ to acknowledge him in order to stay in the loop. Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?

Lydia is sitting in her seat, ankles crossed passively beneath her desk, twirling a strand of her hair around her index finger like she could care less about the show happening in front of her. But Stiles knows better. He watches the way she surveys the room, drinking up every flick of paper and harried glance, anything she can use to spice up her lunchroom talk later.

Stiles takes a tentative step in the room, trying to sneak around the mass of desks to get to his, and why did he decide to sit on the _opposite_ side of the room from the door, anyway?

“I was in two aerobics classes.” Derek tries to explain, thrusting forward his transfer slip. Mrs. English just squints at the piece of paper like it has personally offended her. And, honestly, it probably has.

Stiles is pretty sure they were supposed to have a discussion on Faulkner today, complete with the whole ‘ _circle-desk_ ’ fiasco that usually accompanies socratic-style lectures. Mrs. English probably had her entire day scheduled out, and then here comes crazy Peter Hale’s probably-a-murderer nephew to throw a wrench in the whole day.

Stiles would laugh, probably, if he wasn’t already tardy and trying not to make a scene. So he just shrugs his backpack off his shoulder and tiptoes into the room, eyeing the other kids in his class, but no one really pays attention to him anyway. They’re all watching Derek.

Stiles has never been more grateful not to be the center of attention. He really can’t handle another detention. His ass aches just thinking about doing one more bleacher run. Stiles flops down in his seat and lounges back, dropping his backpack unceremoniously on the ground beside him.

“Of course.” Mrs. English says eventually as she takes the transfer slip from Derek’s hand, eyeing him suspiciously over the rim of her glasses. “Take any open seat.”

And Stiles just grins up at Derek as he surveys the room, his unnaturally pale eyes immediately landing on the only open seat left. AP Lit is for _smart_ kids, and Stiles can count all his classmates on his hands, so every year his advanced language arts class is shut off in the smallest classroom ever. At least it makes gossip-getting even easier.

Derek sits to Stiles’ left, right in front of the windows, with this constipated look on his face. He looks like he’s in pain, or angry, or, like, thirty seconds away from maiming everyone in the class. But Stiles just keeps grinning, and he even raps his fingers on his own desk in a greeting, but Derek doesn’t look up. He just shuffles through his backpack, revealing an old, beat-up copy of _The Sound and the Fury_. Like that’s not weird at all.

Stiles’ grin fades a little as he stares at the book. The spine is cracked and warped, like it’s been pushed open more times than Stiles thinks is humanly possible. How can someone actually open that book more than once?

He glances beside him, at one of the kids on the lacrosse team, but the dude just stares right back at Stiles like he’s seen an alien or something. Actually, the entire class is just kind of, like, staring. Even Stiles-Hating Lydia, her cool facade completely forgotten and her perfectly-lined lips pursed together, is staring as she analyzes the hell out of Derek.

Mrs. English clears her throat and lifts her ancient hand to point at the class, trying her best to regain everyone’s attention again. “I graded the quizzes from yesterday, and needless to say, I’m not impressed.”

Stiles shrinks down in his seat, jiggling his leg beneath his desk. He tries not to take it personally when Mrs. English stares right at him, like it’s his fault that he can’t concentrate on this dumbass book, but it’s kind of hard when each syllable she says is directly pointed at him.

“I’m surprised,” Mrs. English says cooly, reaching for the stack of graded quizzes on her desk. She has to push Derek’s transfer slip off the top of the pile, but suddenly that’s the last thing on everyone’s mind. Because Mrs. English is best friends with Betty at the post office, and if they just so happen to discuss everyone's first failing grade in AP Lit, that’s basically the end of Beacon Hills High’s social life.

“No one knew where the title came from,” she pauses as she stands, her thousand-year-old heels clicking on the linoleum. “I put it on the top of the summer reading syllabus. I thought that one was, for sure, a giveaway.”

Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip and doesn’t dare look anywhere else. He stares her down, trying to keep his cool, because this is how it just happens to be in Mrs. English’s class. He’s had Mrs. English for every language arts class since freshman year, and every year it’s the same. If you can stare down the beast without flinching, you’ll pass with flying colors onto your bright future, or some bullshit like that. But if you flinch, or beg for mercy, your ass will be grounded for the foreseeable future.

Thanks, Betty.

Stiles-Hating Lydia clears her throat from behind him, and Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. Mrs. English beady little eyes flicker across the room to her, and suddenly he can breathe again.

“It’s Shakespeare.”

Mrs. English’s thin stone lips quirk up in the smallest smile Stiles has ever seen, and she just nods as she dumps the quizzes in the recycling bin. She sits herself down at her desk, her puffy floral shirt flapping around her body like a disgruntled bird.

“Correct, as usual, Miss Martin.” She says cooly, pointing an accusing finger at Lydia. “I have half’a mind to tell your momma that y’all purposely fail my first quiz every year.”

“It’s just because we like the socratic-style exams better. You always make ‘em more interesting” Stiles pipes in, flashing his best Scott-impersonation smile at Mrs. English. He must be getting better because he almost sees her smile back at him.

Almost.

He thinks he hears Derek Hale snort a laugh, but when Stiles looks over, Derek’s got his head buried in his book. He doesn’t seem to even know the class was thirty seconds from doomsday.

“Alright, then let’s begin. Miss Martin told us the title is Shakespeare's, but let’s see if we can draw on any other parallels between Faulkner and Macbeth’s monologue.”

Fuck. They had read _Macbeth_ last year for summer homework, and honestly, Stiles is pretty sure Mrs. English just likes to punish them all, because who can remember all the way back then? And what’s with all the crossing between classes? They took AP Lang junior year, and now AP Lit senior year, and he’s pretty sure the other high school classes don’t have this much cross-over.

Stiles is about to raise his hand to ask if this is what’s taught in all the other core-curriculum AP Lit classes when Lydia breezily starts the conversation, bulldozing right over Stiles like he doesn’t exist.

And, once again, he’s grateful. Because fuck Faulkner, and fuck Shakespeare, and fuck whoever else Mrs. English thinks wrote all of Shakespeare’s plays.

Stiles just sits there for fifty minutes, staring at Mrs. English’s old lady clothes and trying to pay attention to the discussion about depression and pessimism and whatever the hell else Lydia decided to talk about, and staring out the window, and staring at the side of Derek Hale’s head to try and get his attention.

And Derek Hale just sits there, not looking at Stiles, no matter how hard Stiles stares at the side of his head. But Stiles doesn’t really know what he’d say if Derek did decide to look up at him. What’s he supposed to say?

 _“Hey, I heard you’re probably a serial killer”_ or _“What’s up, I’m Stiles, and I would not taste good at a cannibalistic barbeque”_? Because those are great ice-breakers, and Stiles is sure to be the center of the lunch gossip if he starts with those.

When the bell finally rings, Derek Hale shoves his own copy of _The Sound and the Fury_ into his backpack and walks out of the classroom without looking at anyone. And, honestly, Stiles is a little disappointed. He’s not sure what he expected, like maybe a big school-wide shootout or an Earth-shattering revelation or something, but his first run-in with Derek Hale is completely _normal_.

What’s the point of over-analyzing daytime television if nothing’s ever gonna happen in real life?

Even Lydia looks disappointed when Jackson shows up in the doorway to walk her to her next class. There was, like, _zero_ drama. That’s gotta weigh on a girl like her, and Stiles almost feels bad for Jackson, almost, because Lydia just takes his hand and hisses something at him under her breath as they walk away.

Stiles can’t wait to sit next to her in Harris’ class and have her bitchily answer all the questions Stiles clearly knows the answer to like she usually does when she’s in a mood. So if Stiles doesn’t feel too bad for Jackson, and kind of wishes she’ll take out her frustration on him before chemistry, who can blame him?

 

…

 

Derek Hale doesn’t say a single word to Stiles for the rest of the day, or for the rest of the week, for that matter. And it doesn’t make any sense, because Stiles practically goes out of his way to run into him at every given moment.

He waits until the lunch line is ridiculously long to get in because he knows Derek will probably be late to lunch. But Derek Hale brings a bagged lunch every day, and eats some dumbass peanut butter sandwich by himself in the corner of the cafeteria.

He lingers at his locker longer than usual between classes, hoping to catch another glance at the new kid, but Derek never seems to stop at any of the lockers in the entire hallway. One of them has to belong to him, Stiles knows, because Derek’s violin _has_ to be somewhere during the day. But Derek Hale doesn’t ever stop in the hallway, or return Stiles’ open-mouthed stares, or acknowledge that he even exists.

It doesn’t keep Stiles from thinking about him, though. It’s not just because he’s new, and pretty, and Stiles likes to stare at him. It’s because Derek knows about Faulkner, and can keep up with Lydia in Mrs. English’s AP Lit class, and explains the jumbled mess of anti-punctuation and grammar in a way that even Stiles can follow. On the second day of him joining the AP Lit class, Derek recited Macbeth’s entire monologue about his imminent death.

_“It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”_

Stiles is pretty sure his entire life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. All he needs now is to succumb to a murderous plot and meet some witches, or whatever the hell Macbeth did. Maybe he’ll reread the play, since apparently that’s all they’re going to be talking about for the entire Faulkner section.

He convinces himself that he’s trying harder in AP Lit for his own benefit. It has nothing to do with Derek Hale, the probable-murderer.

Especially since aforesaid guy doesn’t acknowledge that Stiles exists.

When school lets out on Friday, Stiles is pretty sure the sky is going to burst right in two and swallow up the entire town. Big, black clouds roll dangerously overhead as he meets Scott in the locker room, and if Stiles could hear anything over the banging of locker doors, he bets there’s a rumble of thunder or two outside.

It’s been raining all week, and Stiles is pretty sure the universe just likes to fuck with him at this point, because each day the humidity makes his hair frizz at the ends like he’s the bastard son of Ms. Frizzle from the _Magic School Bus_. To top it off, there’s a nagging headache that’s been building behind his right eyebrow all week that he can’t seem to shake.

And he’s tried, like, everything. His liver is going to go kaputz before he even turns twenty-one, with all the motrin and Excedrin he’s been popping.

“I can’t believe Finstock’s gonna make us practice in the rain _again_.” Scott groans, tugging on his jersey.

Stiles shrugs, digging around in his locker for his deodorant. He rolls it under his armpits a couple of times as he stares at Scott, watching his friend’s mouth move without really listening to anything that’s coming out of it. It’s kind of like his head is in this big bubble, and everything else is, like, Charlie Brown adult-noise.

“And what’s up with all these storms? It’s gonna ruin my strawberry patch.”

“No one wants to hear about your _strawberry patch_ , McCall.” Jackson slams his locker shut, jerking Stiles out of his haze. “Except maybe your boyfriend.”

Stiles bares his teeth at Jackson, yanking his own jersey on. “Yeah, well, at least he’s _got_ a boyfriend!”

And that’s probably not the best thing to say, because Scott’s face does this weird twisty horror-thing, and suddenly Stiles is being all but dragged out of the locker room by his stick. No pun intended.

“Dude,” Scott doesn’t let go of Stiles’ lacrosse stick until they are a good few feet from the locker room. “You gotta stop telling everyone we’re boyfriends. It’s weird.”

“Why? Are you homophobic, Scott?”

“No, I’m friends with Danny.”

Right. Danny, the team’s goalie, and the only openly gay kid within a thousand-mile radius of Beacon Hills. Stiles doesn’t know why he’s all bent up about it, but he is, so he adjusts his grip on his stick and fingers the netting as he continues.

“‘Cause I think I’d be a pretty good boyfriend, thank you. I’ve grown since freshman year, and I hate to say it Scottie, but I’m gonna be the brains _and_ the brawn soon if you don’t get to fixin’ that hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

And that’s what Scott is focused on, obviously.

“It’s, like, 2012 Justin Bieber or somethin’.”

“I like Justin Bieber.”

And, just like that, Stiles’ little midday crisis is gone. He hits Scott on the shoulder with his stick, grimacing at the reminder of Scott’s absolutely awful summer driving playlist. Honestly, if there’s one person who should not have access to Spotify Premium, it’s Scott.

Stiles is about to protest Scott’s abhorrent music taste when there’s a rough poke between his shoulder blades, and Jackson is steamrolling past him like he doesn’t exist. He saunters out of the gym, without even looking at all the cheerleaders stretching on the mats, and onto the backcourt like there’s not about to be a torrential downpour any second.

A part of Stiles hates how easily Jackson just does whatever he wants, and how he expects the rest of the team to follow his every move.

The thunder clouds groan heavily in the sky. Stiles watches the back of Jackson’s jersey glow in the dim flicker of lightning. And then he’s following the captain out, with Scott looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

It’s usually the other way around, but there’s something nagging in the pit of Stiles’ stomach that makes him want to _move_ , so he does. He shoulders his stick and grabs ahold of the hem of Scott’s jersey, leading his best friend out into the oncoming storm.

There’s probably something poetic about that, somewhere, if Stiles could find it in himself to care. Maybe it’s Faulkner rubbing off on him.

It’s definitely _something_ rubbing off on him.

 

…

 

By the time they get to Scott’s car, both of them are completely soaked through. Stiles usually would feel bad about dragging his wet equipment into Scott’s trunk, or tossing his sopping jersey in the back seat, but he’s wet and _tired_ and if Scott’s not going to complain, then fuck it.

Stiles collapses in the passenger seat, raking his hands through his wet hair. It probably sticks up at awkward points on his head, but Scott doesn’t say anything, so Stiles just leaves it. He’s almost too tired to buckle up, and his head is fogged up again something awful, and the car’s radio is making a weird groaning noise.

He blinks a few times before he realizes the groaning noise is actually Scott, who is still complaining about having to practice in the rain.

“Are you gonna say anything?” Scott punches the button on the radio, turning it on. Static fills the cab, because Scott’s shitty car has an even shittier radio reception, and Stiles just blinks at him.

“What am I supposed to say?” Stiles asks, feeling way more tired than he has any right to. It’s just practice. Maybe he’s coming down with something.

“I dunno,” Scott squints out the front window and flicks on the wipers. It’s raining so hard, Stiles is pretty sure Scott can’t see anything at all. It’s probably not a good idea for them to be driving, but whatever. No one wants to stay in the school parking lot after a Friday practice.

“I mean, yeah, Finstock is probably out to get us.” Stiles grins. “Economics sophomore year, remember? We did that presentation on castration and he said he was gonna kill us.”

“ _Y_ _ou_ did that presentation on castration, _I_ just stood there and clicked the screen when it was time to change slides. Why am I including in the killing? I’m innocent!”

“What about the porn-fiasco?”

Scott just grunts, spinning the dial on the radio. Weather warnings are on every channel, telling everyone to stay off the roads tonight and watch out for flash flooding. Stiles listens half-heartedly to the warnings, his eyes lingering on the almost empty parking lot. The only cars left are the few straggling lacrosse players, and probably the band kids, Stiles thinks. They have practice on Fridays, too.

The sky is almost black, even though it’s hardly supper time, and Stiles watches as Scott turns on his headlights to pull out of his spot. The man on the radio blares on about how to deal with the prolonged storm season and flooding, and Stiles feels a pang of guilt for Scott’s strawberries. Scott and Stiles’ moms used to plant them together every spring when school let out, and the kids would gorge themselves on berries all summer.

Stiles hasn’t been keeping up with his berries. Maybe they’ve miraculously survived. Since his mom died, no one’s really been out in their back garden.

“Dude, you can probably save some of your strawberries. You can relocate them to those hanging thingies. I saw them on TV once, I think.”

“Yeah,” Scott sighs, leaning all the way forward in his seat. He looks like a little old lady, all perched up like that. Stiles would laugh, really, if it didn’t feel like his head was about to implode. Or if, you know, either of them could see more than five feet ahead of the car.

Maybe Stiles should call his dad. But if Stiles and Scott can’t see through the rain, there’s really no need for Stiles’ dad to venture out in the storm, anyway. What good would it do if all of them ended up dead in a ditch somewhere, or swept away by a flash flood?

Lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating the intersection outside the school. The stoplight blinks red, a four-way stop, and it looks like Scott just takes a wild guess when he pulls through. Luckily, no one jackhammers them or anything.

The radio is reduced to static, and Stiles reaches a hand out to flick through the channels again in an attempt to find something to listen to before Scott suggests they turn on his Spotify. Stiles is really not in the mood for Bieber.

He’s pretty sure he can make out something in the static when Scott suddenly slams on the breaks and sends Stiles flying towards the dash. The car fishtails on the slick road, skating erratically between the lines, tossing Stiles about in his seat, and he should really learn to wear his seatbelt correctly. His dad is the sheriff. He should know better.

The car spins out into the darkness, and Stiles throws his arms out to brace his fall, almost braining himself on the radio. When he looks up, Scott is staring straight ahead, paler than a sheet, his arms locked straight and his grip wobbling on the wheel.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Stiles hisses, rubbing at his wrists. He adjusts himself in his seat again, trying to see what the hell made Scott stop so suddenly through the rain. There’s nothing in the small space illuminated in front of the car, and Stiles cranes his neck around to try and look out the side windows.

But there’s nothing.

“Dude, hello!? What the fuck?”

“I thought—” Scott presses his lips in a hard line, and Stiles watches as he slowly shifts gears into park. Thunder rumbles above the car in a low warning when Scott unbuckles his seat belt.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Stiles watches, wide-eyed, as Scott slowly reaches into the back seat to grab one of their lacrosse sticks.

“There’s something out there.”

“Yeah, it’s called a big-ass storm! What are you doing?”

“There’s something out there!” Scott says again, like Stiles should just _get it_ , and then he’s adjusting his grip on the stick like he can ward off some kind of awful storm monster with it.

The storm shifts, sending the rain sideways against the windshield, and Stiles is pretty sure they’re about to get royally murdered or drowned or something. The headlights flicker and suddenly there are two flashing blue eyes staring at him from outside the car.

There’s something out there.

Stiles shrinks against the door, and Scott just stares at the _thing_ outside the car like maybe it hasn’t noticed them. He thinks he remembers this from the movies. If he doesn’t move, he won’t die, right?

Right.

Stiles takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, because he’s got to keep his head on straight. But his mind is just as foggy as earlier, and he thinks maybe Scott is saying something again, but he can’t focus on anything other than the Charlie Brown adult-noises and the pair of bright blue eyes staring at him through the glass.

And then he notices the metal glint of a flashlight, and those eyes aren’t really _glowing_ anymore, just kind of staring right at Stiles. Another rip of lightning brightens the sky enough for Stiles to make out a vaguely human-shaped figure in front of the car, a flash of black hair, and rain-streaked glasses.

Derek Hale.

Derek Hale is outside, in the middle of the road, during a catastrophic thunderstorm, and they’re _probably_ not about to get murdered.

But Scott doesn’t seem to get the memo, because suddenly his chest is heaving and he’s coughing into his hands. Stiles doesn’t have time to process the panic-induced asthma attack before he’s reflexively chucking Scott’s inhaler at his head.

“Dude, breathe! It’s just Derek.” Stiles yells over the thunder, climbing out of the vehicle. Just Derek, the nephew of the town’s recluse and probable-murderer. Shit. Stiles has half a mind to grab the lacrosse stick from Scott as he steps out into the rain.

If they’re going to die out here in the middle of the road, Stiles is going to go down swinging.

“Are you insane?” Derek practically growls, his entire body shaking in the rain.

Stiles just stares at him, his stick outstretched between them, like maybe it’ll keep Derek from disemboweling him right there. Because if anyone is the insane one, he’s pretty sure it’s the kid who was just _standing_ in the middle of the road.

“We could have hit you.” Stiles squints through the rain, gesturing wildly with his stick. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“What am _I_ doing out here?” Derek sputters, his eyes flashing blue with the lightning. “What are _you_ doing out here? Why are you following me?”

And, what? Following him? Derek waves his hand in the air in front of him, gesturing between himself and the black car Stiles just recognized on the side of the road. The Camaro. Had they been following another car? Stiles can’t remember.

“We’re just tryin’ to get home.” Stiles blinks slowly, trying to keep the rain out of his eyes. There’s really nothing romantic about standing in the street during a storm, like, at all. He can’t figure out why they do it so many times in the movies.

“Then go!” Derek grunts, turning his back on Stiles and practically stalking back towards his car.

And this is totally not how he wants his first real encounter with Derek Hale to go, thank you. So Stiles shoots one glance towards Scott’s car to make sure he’s still breathing before he hikes up his lacrosse stick and high-tails it in Derek’s direction.

“Woah, wait! Are you just gonna stand out here?”

Derek’s shoulders shake with a put-upon sigh as he wheels back around, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. But Stiles just pokes his lacrosse stick in his direction, then at the car behind him, trying to figure out what the hell Derek’s trying to say with his eyebrows. Said eyebrows are bunched up, nearly one long unibrow on his forehead, and they quiver slightly as Derek blinks at Stiles behind his glasses.

And, sure, maybe he could be more eloquent, but it’s not like _he’s_ the one who almost got run down in the middle of the road.

“Hello? Is there any explanation as to why the hell you’re out here? In the road? Running across the highway in the middle of a storm?” Stiles gestures with his stick, like maybe that’ll help him get his point across.

Derek blinks back at him, unimpressed, and works his jaw.

“I was trying to get someone to help me, genius.” Derek spits, lifting a hand to push back his black hair. It sticks to his forehead in a way that should not pique Stiles interest, what the hell, and Stiles stomps down on that train of thought right away.

“Oh!” Stiles looks between Derek and the Camaro, nodding slowly. “Your car broke down.”

“Obviously.” Derek shrugs into his leather jacket, tugging the collar up around his neck as he turns and starts walking down the road. And is he really about to walk all the way to Old Short Mountain Road? Really?

“You could have, like, called 9-1-1.” Stiles offers, jogging to keep up with Derek’s long strides.

Derek doesn’t respond, like he doesn’t even hear Stiles when he’s talking, and, okay, _ouch._  Stiles opens his mouth, ready to call Derek a dickhead and get the fight over with, when Scott’s car rolls up beside him.

“Dude!” Scott yells out of the rolled-down passenger window. “Get the hell in the car!”

The storm picks up a little, and Stiles winces as tiny pea-sized chunks of hail pelt him on the head. He glances over at Derek, who stopped walking when Scott’s car started moving again. Stiles is a little bit thankful because he’s really not in the mood to clean up splattered teenage boy off Scott’s car.

“There’s not gonna be anyone else. You might as well get in.”

Derek stares at him like he’s crazy, and maybe he is. But Stiles climbs in Scott’s passenger side, tosses his lacrosse stick in the backseat, and firmly buckles himself in. Then he leans out the window and tries to wave Derek over.

“No thanks. I’ll wait for the next car of guys who nearly kill me.”

“Jesus H. Christ! Get in the fucking car, Hale!”

That must do it because Derek seems to deflate a little as Scott rolls up beside him. He slides in the backseat, dumping all of Scott and Stiles’ lacrosse stuff in the floor. Stiles is really glad Scott doesn’t have fabric seats. He’s not sure they’d ever get the mud out.

Scott rolls up all the windows, and the radio sputters static into the silence, and it takes a moment for all of them to realize that Scott’s just kind of driving down the middle of the road. The car is completely drenched, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s gonna have to mop out the entire thing with Scott later, but he can’t find it in him to care.

His teeth are chattering as he hunches over in his seat, tugging the seatbelt under his armpit. The storm is louder and softer all at once, and for a moment, Stiles just stares out the window as the rain continues to fall.

Scott’s ragged breathing, Stiles’ chattering teeth, and the fucking radio static. It’s a downright symphony. Something in Stiles tells him he needs to get out of the wet clothes and warm up, or else he’ll really catch something nasty, and Scott already said he’s not going to play housewife. The shirt he has on sticks to his body like he just got dumped in the pool, and Stiles grimaces a little.

There’s really nothing romantic at all about being in the rain. Maybe he should write Hallmark about that.

Stiles pulls off his t-shirt and balls it up. It drips onto his jeans, and he has half a mind to take them off too when Derek clears his throat in the back. Stiles catches his eye in the rearview mirror as he tosses his soaked shirt somewhere in the back. He hears it splatter on something. Hopefully, it’s his bag, and not Scott’s.

“Stop staring at me.”

Derek just continues to stare at him. His pale eyes are enormous, and Stiles swears they glow a little when the lightning hits just right. It reminds him of the hamster he had in elementary school, if Stiles’ hamster wanted to devour him and drink his blood or something.

Stiles is the one who looks away first, out the window, at the clock on the radio, anywhere but the broody, murderous eyes in the backseat.

Scott has the heater on blast, and after a few minutes, Stiles’ teeth stop chattering. The only sound in the car is the patter of hail and rain on the roof, and the low hum of static from the radio. He listens to the slosh of wheels on the wet pavement and tries to ignore the sulking figure in the backseat. His head is really not up for this.

When they reach the fork in the road, Stiles shifts in his seat to brace himself for the left turn out of habit. The only thing down the right is the old Hale house, and—

“Right!” Stiles jerks his hand out, pointing down Old Short Mountain Road. His head spins as Scott hastily pulls the wheel to the right.

He’s going to be sick. He’s going to vomit in Scott’s car, in front of Derek Hale, and he’s not going to ever hear the end of it.

The car’s engine wheezes as they climb the hill towards the great house, like it feels just as bad as Stiles does. Maybe it really can sense emotions. Maybe it’s just as terrified to be this close to the murderer’s house.

Stiles glances back in the rearview mirror, taking in the slumped figure in the backseat. What kind of shit has Derek heard in the hallway? At lunch? Does he know he’s living in this big, infamous house, like some kind of town-wide horror story?

Derek looks constipated as they pull closer to the house. Stiles is pretty sure he’s heard it all.

“How come you moved here?”

Derek looks startled, like he’s somehow forgotten that he’s not alone in the car. Derek frowns back at Stiles, and for a moment Stiles thinks maybe he won’t even respond.

Maybe he doesn’t want Derek to respond.

“It’s not really any of your business.”

Up ahead, on the rising hill, stands the lurking shadow of Beacon Hill’s most notorious haunted house. Stiles has never been this close to it before. He’s pretty sure _no one_ has ever been this close to it before.

“Are you guys murderers?”

Scott punches him in the arm. Hard. Stiles flaps his hands indignantly in front of him, trying to push away Scott’s fist.

“Dude!”

Scott looks completely horrified at Stiles’ inability to keep his mouth shut. But, really, he should be used to it after all these years. Derek, on the other hand, is not used to it, and he looks like he’s thinking about ripping Stiles’ throat out. With his teeth. Like a murderer.

“You can just drop me off here.” Derek says after a moment of silence, reaching for the car handle.

But Scott, bless his heart, won’t let him walk up the creepy pathway to the nightmarish house in the rain. Stiles’ best friend is nothing if not the complete human-embodiment of southern hospitality. He clicks the child-lock button on the door, trapping all three of them inside the car. And that’s really what Stiles needs, thank you.

They pull up the hill, and eventually, Scott stops the car in front of a black wrought-iron gate, flapping weakly in the wind. Stiles wonders why it’s not tighter on the hinges, or why it’s not locked shut. Maybe it’s left that way for a dramatic flair. Or maybe the house really is all run-down and haunted, like everyone says.

Scott turns off the motor, and the car is eerily silent. Stiles notices that the rain has let up into some sort of grim drizzle, just enough to warrant the need of windshield wipers, but not heavy enough to make Stiles grab an umbrella on his way out of the house.

“At least the storm’s over.”

Derek doesn’t respond. He pulls on the collar of his leather jacket, like maybe he can disappear inside of it and Stiles won’t ever talk to him again. Stiles watches as he gathers up his backpack, but then Derek stops, his hand hovering lamely above the door’s handle.

“I’m sure there’s more where that came from, though. Right?”

Derek looks at Stiles through the rearview mirror. His eyes look different, like they’ve faded back to a normal color, some blueish greenish shade that Stiles can’t quite name. But he’s pretty sure they were more blue before, in the rain.

“Can you let me out?”

Shit! Scott fumbles to unclick the child lock at the same time Stiles throws off his seatbelt to open Derek’s door from the outside. Then Derek’s door is open. And Stiles’ door is open. They both sit there, halfway out of the car, their doors open, letting the rain get everything even wetter.

Derek looks at Stiles, confused, like he’s some sort of jigsaw puzzle or something. Then he slides out the backseat and shuts the door.

Derek is the one who speaks first, jerking Stiles out of his trance. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Thanks for not murdering us.”

Derek smiles a little and reaches up to adjust his glasses. Stiles stares at Derek, smiling back at him, like they’re old friends or something. Which is insane, because they just officially met, and Derek’s part of this town-wide horror story.

“I’ll see you, Stiles.”

 _Stiles_. He blinks a couple of times and opens and closes his mouth, like a fish out of water. _Stiles_. He recognizes that voice, the low, bassy rumble. Stiles glances down at Derek’s hands, thick and calloused from years of playing a stringed instrument.

The same hands from his dream.

Scott clears his throat and starts the car’s engine again. Derek looks between them, expression hardened back to it’s usual glare. He turns his back on them and slips through the gate, jogging up the steep, muddy drive toward the Hale house.

Stiles slams his door. His head pounds, and he’s starting to feel too claustrophobic, like he’s gotta get out of there. Scott doesn’t wait for him to say anything, he just turns the car back around and heads the way they came.

Stiles watches the house disappear through the trees in the rearview mirror. Scott drives them down Old Short Mountain Road, back towards the fork, so they can go back down the only way they’ve ever gone their whole lives. Until today. Until Derek Hale.

Derek Hale, the dude Stiles has been dreaming about for months. He glances over at Scott and gnaws on his bottom lip. Maybe he should tell him. Scott’ll know what to do. Probably. Or maybe he’ll think Stiles has lost it, booked a one-way ticket to Crazy Town or whatever.

So he stays silent, hunkered down in his seat, and listens to the weatherman start to come through the static on the radio as they drive closer to Stiles’ house.

No one needs to know about their trip to the Hale house. No one needs to know that Stiles is probably going insane. And if Stiles can manage to keep his mouth shut, no one will ever find out.

 

…

 

Everyone finds out. But it’s not Stiles’ fault. Really, it’s not. It’s all Scott.

Scott tells Melissa, who tells another nurse at work, who tells, like, everyone else in the entire hospital. Even Stiles’ dad knows when he gets home Saturday night, and that’s saying something, because the Stilinski’s are known for keeping their nose out of other people’s business. Something about shit up the ol’ sniffer, or whatever.

Either way, Stiles was lounging on the couch, stomach bloated after an entire Saturday of junk food and Call of Duty, when his dad all but barreled into the house and started interrogating him. There was a flashlight in his face and everything. Stiles had only gotten that level of heat after he and Scott threw eggs at Jackson _Bitch_ more’s house and nearly got themselves in a lawsuit.

So Stiles is waiting on the curb Monday morning when Scott pulls up. Scott has the decency to look somewhat ashamed of himself, if only just.

“Dude!” Stiles’ sneakers squelch on the still damp carpet in Scott’s car as he climbs in.

Scott shakes his head. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a deal?” Stiles stares at him. Maybe Scott really had been dropped on his head too many times as a baby. “Dude, even my dad thinks we’ve gone off the deep end. I got a grade-A talkin’ to about minding our own business, and staying out of trouble, and blah blah.”

Scott winces. “Actually, I just drove y’all. Everyone’s talking about how you, like, _spoke_ with him. And no one really knows what happened in the road.”

“Because it’s not anyone’s business!”

“Hey, don’t holler at me. I’m not the one in cahoots with the town whack-job.”

Cahoots? How old is Scott, like, ninety?

“We’re not in _cahoots_ , Scott.”

“Well, he knows your name. Sounds like cahoots to me.”

For a second, Stiles thinks about just shutting up. He doesn’t need to add fuel to the fire, really, but another louder, more instant part of him is telling him otherwise.

“I think I’ve been dreaming about Derek Hale.”

Stiles has to throw his arms out in front of him to keep from smashing into the dash as Scott slams on the brakes. Scott looks blank as he stares at Stiles, like he’s seeing straight through his soul.

They sit there in silence for a few moments. Then Scott blinks and shifts in his seat.

“My momma will kill us if we’re late again. She has the means of gettin’ rid of bodies.”

So Scott just keeps driving, and Stiles word-vomits all over the place. He tells Scott everything. About the dream, and the headaches, and the way he’s pretty sure Derek Hale’s eyes were glowing during the storm. By the time they pull into the school parking lot, Scott has heard the whole story, and he’s looking at Stiles like he’s grown an extra head.

Stiles isn’t sure Scott really believes him, but then again, who would? Stiles isn’t sure if he really believes it himself.

“So.” Scott grabs his backpack as he climbs out of the car. “Do you have any idea what Parrish is cooking for supper tonight?”

Stiles blanches. He has to drag himself out of the car, and he barely keeps from slamming the door in retaliation.

“Are you shittin’ me, McCall? I just told you my entire life’s story, laid it all out on the line, balls out and everything, and you’re worried about supper?”

Scott pushes the _lock_ button on his keys. He falls into stride with Stiles as they head for the school. “Well, yeah. ‘Cause we’re probably gonna miss it.”

After a few moments of silence, when it’s obvious Stiles isn’t following, Scott finally decides to elaborate.

“Dude. There’s some crazy shit goin’ down, and you think we’re _not_ marching our ass over to band practice and demanding some answers? I’ve seen Riverdale. I know how this works.”

“You hate Riverdale.”

Scott hits him on the shoulder. It’s an affection punch. At least, that’s what Stiles tells himself.

“I hate you more.” Scott shoves open the double-doors and steps into the school. “But really. Tell your dad we’re not gonna make it.”

Stiles nods. “It must be a pretty big deal for you to call off supper.”

Scott doesn’t respond. He stops at his locker and flips Stiles the bird before he unlocks the door.

“I love you too, jackass.”

Scott’s finger is still raised in the air, all up in Stiles’ face, as he tries to open his own locker. But really, what else are best friends for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mozart's Kyrie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dL-ttyIhSYk)


	3. Sequentia

When he pushes open the door to English, Stiles is still thinking about the conversation he had with Scott on the way to school. He doesn’t know what he did in his past lives to deserve Scott as his best friend. He probably had his balls hacked off and was part of the Cybelean cult in Rome, and then he suffered through the Black Plague, and then he was burnt at the stake for being a witch or something. Whatever it was, Stiles knows it’s bad, because the universe gave him Scott.

Stiles flops down in his seat and glances around the room. The first bell hasn’t gone off yet, and there are only a few kids already hanging around near their desks. Stiles really wanted to stay in the hallway and talk with Scott, come up with a plan or something, but Scott had a quiz first period and didn’t have time to chat.

Stiles wouldn’t personally call it a _chat_ , it’s more like the biggest conversation of his life, but whatever. Scott’s still down for figuring out whatever the craziness is surrounding Stiles’ life, so he’s counting his blessings.

Derek Hale walks into the room and doesn’t bother to give Stiles a second glance. Or a first glance, for that matter, and hello, that’s pretty rude. Especially since all anyone can talk about is how Stiles booked a one-way ticket to crazy town and started hanging out with the murderous Hale family. Which he didn’t. He just helped Derek get home, and _Scott_ was there too, for fuck’s sake.

But no one bothers to drag Scott into the story, and it’s not like Scott is banging pots and pans together to insert himself into the storyline. But at least he hasn’t ditched Stiles, so that’s a win.

Stiles stares at Derek as he navigates through the desks, heading for his seat beside him. He and Scott hadn’t really come up with a plan, so it’s not like he’s deviating from anything when he starts moving before his brain really catches up with his body. It’s now or never.

Stiles sticks his legs straight out from underneath his desk, and Derek is too busy not looking at Stiles to notice. His ankle catches the tip of Stiles’ sneakers, and he stumbles a bit.

The second they touch, the lights overhead short out and rain a shower of sparks onto them. Stiles ducks his head and reflexively pulls his legs back under the desk. Derek just stares at him, eyebrows drawn together and eyes clouding in a murderous look behind his glasses.

Stiles peeks over at him, and he swears those eyes flash an unnatural blue as the electricity crackles above them.

“Are we going to do this again, Stiles?”

The room falls into silence. The few kids who are already in the class stand still, like they’re frozen in shock, and Stiles can see Lydia stopped in the doorway with Jackson at her side. He’s fucked.

“What?” He can barely choke out the word.

Derek rolls his eyes. He slings his backpack on the desk beside Stiles and plops down in his seat. Stiles just stares at the side of his head.

“What’s that you kept saying the other day?” Derek muses, pulling out his own personal copy of _The Sound and the Fury_. He still doesn’t look at Stiles, but his voice takes on an almost mocking southern accent. “Stop starin’ at me.”

Fuck. _The other day_. Right from Derek Hale’s mouth, in the middle of the classroom, in front of God and everyone. The other kids start to slowly trickle into the room, staring openly between Derek and Stiles. Even though the other lights in the classroom are still working, it’s like there’s a spotlight on the two of them. Stiles can feel his cheeks reddening. He slumps down in his seat, pulls out his notebook, and tries to avoid the looks he keeps getting.

Stiles tries to think of something witty to say in return, and maybe he can pull off Derek’s weird accent to mock him right back, but before he can do anything, Lydia Martin herself is standing in front of Stiles’ desk. Even Mrs. English looks up from her packet, eying the three of them suspiciously.

This is really not good for Stiles. His dad will probably know about all of this before school even lets out. He looks from Lydia to Mrs. English, who has gone back to flipping through her packet, and then down at his notebook, pretending to re-read last week's notes. Like maybe that’ll make Lydia move on, sit down in her seat, and forget she saw… whatever it is that just happened.

But if he knows anything about Lydia (and he does, he’s been obsessed with her for years), it’s a well-known fact that she doesn’t back down that easily. And she always gets what she wants. Always.

“Hey, Stilinski,” Lydia says sweetly, batting her eyes at him. For a moment Stiles can’t even think.

If someone had told Stiles last week that this year would  _finally_ be the year that Stiles-Hating Lydia Martin acknowledged his existence, he would have laughed. He would have laughed so hard that he set off his vagal response and fainted right there on the spot.

But apparently, this school year is just full of surprises. Har har, universe, very funny.

Stiles just sits there with his face in his notebook, but Lydia doesn’t move as she waits for a response. Eventually, Stiles looks up at her and opens and closes his mouth, making a little string of cut-off vowel noises.

Lydia smiles at him after that, like he’s in on whatever little game she’s decided to play, and takes her usual seat a few desks behind him.

“Isn’t this book eye-opening?” Lydia says to the girl sitting next to her, some chick who usually isn’t worth her attention. Stiles can feel her eyes on the back of his head, but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t give her that kind of satisfaction. Instead, he looks straight ahead, his fingers drumming on his open notebook.

Stiles has dreamed about the day Lydia Martin notices him. Literally, he’s dreamed about it, but usually, in those dreams, his classmates are stuffed animals or something. And they’re not staring at him like he’s the scum of the Earth. Go figure.

“I mean, really,” Lydia continues behind him. “It’s just like real life. Even Beacon Hills is full’a people who are completely whacko. And now we’ve got our own little Compson family here, huh? Black sheep of the town, and all.”

Stiles grits his teeth and wills himself to keep looking ahead. He stares at the clock on the wall, like maybe he can make the tardy bell ring with his mind if he tries hard enough.

Mrs. English keeps flipping through the packet on her desk, completely unaware of the war-zone in her classroom. Stiles watches out of the corner of his eye as Derek grips the spine of his book, his knuckles whitening.

When the bell finally rings, Mrs. English begins her lecture on female sexuality, and how Faulkner deals with Caddy’s character throughout the novel. And Stiles is thankful for the break in attention. He lets his eyes wander to the side, out the window, and he glances for a brief moment at Derek.

The other boy is nodding along to everything Mrs. English has to say, but he doesn’t insert himself into the conversation like he normally does. It shoots a ping of guilt through Stiles, like this is somehow his fault, but then Derek looks over at him. He starts to smile a little, but then he catches himself and focuses his attention back on Mrs. English.

“Rough outlines for your research papers are due by Friday.” Mrs. English says a few moments before the bell rings. She narrows her eyes at Stiles. “Rough outlines. As in, three pages long _max_.”

He winces a little but nods in understanding as he shoves his notebook back into his backpack. It’s really not his fault if he gets a little carried away when he’s doing research. So he has a passion for essays and a tendency to lose track of time, sue him.

When the bell rings, Stiles half expects Derek to hang around after class, to tell him that he’s not crazy and there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for Stiles dreaming about him for the past couple of months. But Derek doesn’t. He all but bolts out of the room, before Stiles can trip him up again, and before he gets any answers.

 

...

 

“His car isn’t in the parking lot.” Scott dumps his backpack in the chair next to Stiles without looking, and it promptly falls off onto the cafeteria floor.

Scott doesn’t even pick it back up. He just sits down in said chair and kicks his bag under the table, plopping his bagged lunch in front of him.

Stiles glances around the lunch room for the rest of the lacrosse team. Jackson and Lydia are still in the lunch line. Danny and the twins, Ethan and Aiden, are hanging out in the doorway. (Stiles can’t tell them apart, and honestly, he doesn’t have any intention of learning which one is which this late in his high school career.) He spots Greenberg—who is actually the worst player on the team, not Stiles, thank you— making his way towards the table, and the rest of the team sauntering in behind him.

“He was in first period,” Stiles says cooly, rummaging through his own backpack and pulling out a bruised apple. He grimaces, rolling the fruit around in his hands. Scott grabbed him before lunch and dragged him to their table. He didn’t even have time to get in the lunch line.

Scott, of course, brings his lunch every day. So the intrusion doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. The bastard.

“Do you have a plan, or were you banking on me coming up with something?” Stiles takes a bite out of the least bruised part of his apple. He doesn’t bother telling Scott about this morning’s English class incident. He’s pretty sure Scott already knows, anyway.

Scott just shrugs, like that’s an appropriate answer to Stiles’ question. He opens up his paper bag and flashes Greenberg a shit-eating grin as the boy approaches the table. “Hey man, congrats on makin’ the cheer squad.”

Greenberg slumps down across from Scott and openly glares at both of them. “That’s my sister, asshat.”

“Damn,” Scott blows out a low whistle while digging through his lunch bag, “I should’a known that wasn’t your cute ass in a skirt this mornin’.”

Stiles watches enviously as Scott pulls out a turkey and cheese sandwich. If they are only going to talk about their plans during passing periods, then the least Scott could do is wait in the lunch line with Stiles. They could totally whisper about the details over steamed corn. And macaroni. And meatloaf.

Fuck. Stiles is missing meatloaf day for this. That’s one of the only days he actually enjoys at lunch.

“She’s a Greenberg, McCall.” Jackson slams down his lunch tray, and Stiles watches how all the other guys shift towards him, all ears. “Best to stay away from that. Their family tree is more like a family _twig_.”

Lydia snorts, setting herself down beside Jackson. She practically plasters against his side, stealing a baby carrot from his plate. She shoots Stiles a disgruntled look, her perfect little nose all scrunched up, like his very presence is putting a damper on her mood.

Stiles doesn’t know what kind of game she’s playing, but this year, he’s not interested. He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck and tries his best not to catch her eye. Which is ridiculous, because he’s been trying for, like, forever to get Lydia to notice him. And now that she’s paying attention to him, he’d rather just fall into the background again.

Greenberg says something meekly in response to Jackson, and Stiles takes another bite out of his apple to drown him out. Stiles is pretty sure Lydia only let Greenberg’s sister on the cheer team as a pity move. The Greenberg’s are third string in everything, including life.

“What’ve we got this year, Jackson?” One of the twins sits down on his left, flanking him. This one is second in command, as usual. The other twin sits beside Danny and offers Stiles a curt nod in greeting. One of them is in Mrs. English’s class with him and witnessed the horrors of this morning, but he’s not sure which one, so Stiles salutes him in return just to be safe and starts to study his apple.

“A few 8’s, three 7’s, and a whole tennis team full of 5’s.” Jackson’s business was a crude one, but all the guys were forever indebted to it.

After eating around all the bad spots, Stiles sets his apple down on the table. Scott drops it in his lunch sack and hands Stiles a little bag of Cheetos. Stiles mutters a tiny _‘thanks’_. Scott nods and narrows his eyes at Jackson.

“No 9’s? There’s usually at least one. You tellin’ me that _no_ freshman girls made it past 8?”

Jackson just shrugs, shoveling up a forkful of meatloaf. Stiles tries really hard not to stare. He’d kill for some meatloaf.

“None a’them filled out right. But they’re all still in the game.”

Lydia shoots him a pointed look, and Jackson quickly continues around the meatloaf in his mouth. “I mean, I’m obviously not playin’, but they’re in the game.”

Jackson is mostly all talk, Stiles knows that, but the yearly ranking of incoming freshmen always makes his skin crawl a little. Last time Lydia dumped him, all Jackson could talk about were the hot seniors from Lafayette High, the high school from the next town over, who he was definitely going to bang. When he’s not with Lydia, Jackson’s almost as delusional as Scott.

Scott, as expected, grins before he takes a bite out of his turkey sandwich. “If I make first line this year, maybe I’ll go for one of those 8’s.”

“First line? Over my dead body.” Jackson deadpans, not bothering to look over at Scott. He stabs at his meatloaf, and Lydia shakes her head. She shoots Scott a pitying look and sets her hand over her heart.

“You poor thing. Bless your heart.” Her voice drips with sickly sweet honey, the vowels all southern-drawl and full of fake emotion. “I’m sure there are plenty of girls in your league. Try the theater geeks, since everyone knows Stilinski’s already goin’ for the band kids.”

Stiles winces a little and follows Lydia’s pointing finger, eyes landing on the table of kids animatedly talking to each other. He rips open the bag of Cheetos Scott gave him, stuffing a handful into his mouth.

The theater kids tend to group up with the band kids, and no one with half an ounce of self-dignity would be caught dead around them. Or else you’ll get dragged into set design, or costume making, or, if you’ve got a bad omen hanging around your head, _musical advertisement._

Stiles got dragged into musical advertisement freshman year. It took all of his power to crawl out of that hole, and there’s nothing that would make him go back down that path.

Nothing, apparently, except everyone’s obsession with him and Derek Hale, who isn’t even at the table.

“Well, maybe I will.” Scott shoots back, grabbing a Cheeto out of the bag in Stiles’ hand.

If it’s supposed to sound like a comeback, Stiles can’t tell. And apparently, neither can Lydia, since she just flicks her perfect hair over her shoulder and steals another one of Jackson’s baby carrots.

“We can probably snag them after practice today,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow at Scott.

Scott nods solemnly, pointedly _not_ looking over at the theater kids. No matter how desperate Scott is to find his soulmate, that desperation didn’t push him to actually consider dating anyone who doesn’t make Jackson’s ranking system. He’s delusional, sure, but not suicidal. And stepping out of line to date someone the team doesn’t approve of is the biggest form of social suicide, like, ever.

“Their practice usually ends when ours does,” Danny says, probably trying to be helpful, but it sounds a little too close to what Lydia had to say earlier. Scott shoots him a glare and opens his mouth, most likely to say something nasty right back, but Stiles barrels right on ahead.

“Thanks, Danny! Are you going to finish that? I’m a slut for Miss Sandra’s meatloaf, and I’ll totally do anything you want.” He pauses for dramatic effect, staring earnestly at Danny, who looks like he’s going to vomit all over the table from the idea. “ _Anything_.”

Danny shoves his tray towards Stiles, mouth curled down in a disgusted look that Stiles totally doesn’t take to heart. Nope. He just accepts Danny’s leftover meatloaf like it’s the best thing in the entire world, and honestly, compared to the usual public school lunches, it really is.

“So,” Stiles picks up a hunk of meatloaf with his fingers and pops it in his mouth. “After practice?”

Scott nods again. He glances around the table, but the other guys are already pestering Jackson about the tennis team full of 5’s. Tennis is the only sport at Beacon Hills High that takes anyone who tries out. It’s not unusual for all the girls ranking 5 and below to be on the team, but every year the guys make it sound like a big deal.

“Yeah, sure.” Scott pauses, looking seriously at Stiles. “I heard about what happened earlier. Did you get anything outta him?”

Fuck. Stiles munches on the Cheetos and shakes his head. Scott looks a little disappointed, but then he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Okay. After practice.” He pauses, lowering his voice a little. “Be quiet about it. Whatever that thing was with the lights? Don’t let it happen again. This is all need-to-know, as in, no one needs to know.”

Stiles nods. Damage control. It’s alright if everyone’s talking about how _Stiles_ has gone off the deep end, but that doesn’t mean he needs to drag Scott down with him. He gets it, he does, this is the first year that Jackson and Lydia are actually _talking_ to Scott outside of class, but it still stings a little.

Scott punches Stiles on the arm and dives back into the table’s conversation, offering to drive a few of the other guys to the next tennis match, and Stiles tries not to think about how ridiculous it all is. So he just shoves another piece of meatloaf in his mouth and glances over at the table of band geeks and theater nerds, but Derek still isn’t there.

He can’t stop thinking about those pale blueish-greenish eyes and black hair. Crazy Peter Hale’s nephew. Probably a serial killer. Part of the town’s Compton family. Hopefully, he can keep his mind off of all things dark, handsome, and stubbly.

How far off can a guy be?

…

 

After lacrosse practice, Stiles stands in the hallway near the auditorium, his maroon jersey sticking to him in all the wrong places and a divet of sweat running down his spine. He stares at the wide double-doors, which are currently shut, waiting for any sign of movement inside. Derek Hale is in there somewhere, finishing up band practice, and Stiles is _not_ letting him escape this time.

Scott shakes his inhaler beside him, almost completely collapsed against the wall next to the doors. He’s breathing hard, and Stiles swears he can hear the mucus from his inflamed bronchi, but Scott gives him a withering look and Stiles doesn’t say anything. As long as Scott insists he’s fine, Stiles doesn’t push him. That’s how it works.

Stiles runs a hand through his sweaty hair and focuses his attention back on the auditorium. Inside, he can hear a haunting melody coming from a violin, or one of those bigger violin-things. A viola, he thinks. It’s beautiful and sad all at the same time, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s heard this song before, but he can’t figure out how.

“Maybe you shouldn’t make a scene.” Scott says, his voice thick. He coughs into the crook of his arm, and when he looks back up at Stiles, the timbre of his voice is back to normal. “I mean, haven’t you made enough scenes? Your dad’ll have some choice words for ya.”

Yeah, he will. He’s even missing dinner, and Deputy Parrish spends hours making food for the two Stilinski men and Scott. He’s never going to hear the end of this.

Stiles doesn’t have time to rethink their plan before the music dies down and the double-doors are opening. A wave of kids push past him, a flurry of sheet music and instruments being shoved into their cases. They wrinkle their noses up at Stiles and Scott, who are stinking up the entire hallway, and Stiles takes a step away from the door.

Maybe they should have thought this through more. Maybe they should have showered before storming over here after an hour of drills. Maybe they shouldn’t have come at all, let sleeping dogs lie and whatnot.

Stiles trips over his lacrosse stick, nearly falling on his ass in front of the last couple of band kids. He bends down to pick the stick up off the floor so no one else falls. He doesn’t want to be responsible for anyone’s broken instrument, he’s not made of money.

By the time he stands back up, lacrosse stick in his hands, Derek Hale is eyeing him suspiciously from the doorway.

“Really?” He lifts a hand to adjust his glasses, looking between Stiles and Scott. “You two again?”

“You didn’t drive to school today.” Stiles blurts out, pointing his lacrosse stick at Derek. He has a slight sense of déjà-vu. They’re in the same position as Friday evening. Stiles quickly moves his hands, clutching the stick to his chest instead.

Derek raises a brow. “So you _are_ stalking me.”

“No!” Stiles sputters, looking to Scott for some kind of backup. But Scott is just standing there, shaking his inhaler and staring at Derek like he’s some kind of creep from a horror movie.

“I just want to know what the fuck’s going on!” Stiles groans, readjusting his grip on his lacrosse stick. There’s no one else in the hallway, and he turns his head back and forth to check several times before he blows out a frustrated sigh.

“You’re the dude. From my dreams. I’ve dreamt about you, and I’ve spent months obsessing about you, and now you’re, like, here.”

Derek suddenly looks paler and his eyes widen, for just a moment they shift to a bluer hue before he looks at some spot over Stiles’ shoulder, making a point of not looking at him directly. His jaw clenches and he tilts his head like he’s listening to something, and he focuses unnaturally on some far-away spot on the wall.

It makes the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stand on end, and his headache is pulsing under his temple again. He wants to look behind himself, see if there’s something there that deserves this kind of singular, focused attention. But he doesn’t move. For some reason, he’s certain that if he turns around, Derek will be gone.

Then all of a sudden Derek blinks and shifts his weight, passing his black violin case from one hand to the other.

“What dreams?” Derek mutters, eyes flickering all around the hallway without landing on Stiles. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We’re not here to play games,” Scott hisses, suddenly stepping away from the wall. He gets all up in Derek’s face, his cheeks still splotchy and read from practice, and stares the other guy down. “If you know something, you better start tellin’ us.”

Derek works his jaw, staring right back at Scott, but he doesn’t say anything. Stiles watches his eyes, which seem to almost glow beneath the fluorescent lights.

“And what’s up with that? Your eyes change colors, dude!” Stiles shoots his arms out at his sides, waving the lacrosse stick in the air.

Derek keeps staring at Scott, puffing out his chest. He’s got a few good inches on Scott, and for a moment Stiles is pretty sure there’s going to be a fistfight right here in the hallway, but then Scott takes a step back, deflating a little.

“It’s the fluorescents,” Derek says dryly, tightening his grip on his violin case.

Scott glares at him. “Yeah, whatever you say, Edward Cullen.”

“Scott, you know Twilight?”

Scott turns his head to stare at Stiles, like he can’t believe _that’s_ what he’s focused on, but then Derek’s voice bounces down the hallway towards them, and both boys whirl around to watch him head for the exit. Stiles didn’t even notice him start walking. He knew better than to look away.

“Try to not follow me this time.” Derek calls towards them.

Stiles watches him leave. He hears the thunder even before Derek reaches the doors, and he notices how the boy has to struggle to open them against the sudden wind. Derek just clutches his violin case to his chest, shielding it from the sudden rain, and runs out into the parking lot.

“I’m _not_ Bella,” Stiles says, dropping his lacrosse stick to the floor. He hears it clatter on the linoleum in the empty hallway.

Scott might respond, Stiles isn’t sure, because he’s suddenly shrugging off his backpack and leaving everything right there in the hall. He bends down and digs Scott’s keys out of his bag. His head is pounding, and the thunder rumbles throughout the school, and Stiles is _not_ Bella fucking Swan. But here he goes, running after the mysterious guy with the color-changing eyes.

“Dude!” Scott yells after him, “It’s not worth it! We’ll think of something—”

Stiles is out of the building before he can finish. He’s already taken sides, and for once, it’s not with Scott. He’s in some deep shit now, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s already late for supper, his dad probably already knows he’s in _cahoots_ with Derek Hale, so fuck it. He’ll deal with it all later.

Little bite-sized pellets of hail pound on Stiles’ head. He squints as he runs through the empty parking lot, trying to shield his head with his hands. At least the rain might help him not stink so bad. Maybe.

Derek didn’t drive to school today, and Stiles has no idea how he even left campus, but he doesn’t slow down as he sprints across the wet pavement. Stiles climbs into Scott’s car and slams the door behind him, and doesn’t feel the least bit guilty for leaving Scott stranded at school.

Despite his death-grip on the steering wheel, his hands won’t stop shaking. He’s not afraid or anything, and it's not a panic attack, he knows, because he’s had those ever since his mom died. There’s just this current running under his skin, thrumming in tune with his headache, like he’s had too much caffeine with his Adderall.

Stiles jerks the car into reverse and slams his foot down on the gas. He knows where he’s going before he even peels out of the parking lot.

 

…

 

The old Hale house sits on top of the hill, surrounded by trees that curl protectively around the property. Stiles stares up at the looming structure, his heart pounding in his ears. He’s not scared. He’s not, or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s not just going to sit back and let some unexplained boogie-man wreck havoc on his dreams, on his town.

He walks up to the black gate and lays his hand on the metal. He pushes a little, holds his breath as the gate creaks open, and then… nothing. The rain continues to fall on his head, but there’s no flash of lightning to knock him out of the way. There’s no ominous boom of thunder or anything like that.

If anyone had told him a week ago that he’d be walking up to the town’s haunted house, he would have called them crazy. He wouldn’t have laughed in their face, like if they had said Lydia Martin was to speak to him. He would keep his distance, probably, because only someone who was completely mental would even _think_ about going to the old Hale house.

But here he is.

Last time, he only got as far as the gate. And he wasn’t alone. He’s totally fucked.

Stiles steps past the gate, and the closer he gets, the more of the house he can see. It’s like something straight out of one of those _Hallmark_ movies where the big-city girl visits her hometown and falls in love with some poor, stereotypically-handsome white dude. They make-out at his plantation house, she leaves her dream job, and she moves back to the guy and her family.

It’s unusual for this part of the state. Stiles is pretty sure he’s seen plantation houses before, when he goes farther south, where they still grow miles and miles of corn and tobacco. But the buildings around here are all mid-century, most of them ranches and a few split-levels, like his house and Scott’s. It just makes the old Hale house stand out even more.

Huge white pillars stand on the front porch, supporting a sharply sloping roof. Stiles eyes the peeling paint and splintering wood. The front stairs are warped and rotting in the middle, leaning away from each other, and they look like they might fall apart if Stiles even _dares_ to step up. Ivy wraps itself around the exterior walls, so thick that Stiles has trouble seeing the windows underneath, like the forest is trying to reclaim its land, house and all.

Stiles takes a tentative step up, trying to be stealthy as he approaches the door, but the stair groans loudly beneath his sneakers. So he puts on his big boy pants, takes a deep breath, and vaults up the rest of the porch steps, taking them two at a time.

There’s a huge brass wolf’s head on the door with a ring hanging out of its mouth, and that’s totally not weird at all. Stiles curls his hand around the ring and knocks, and knocks, and knocks. Again and again, in rapid succession, like maybe he can knock some sense into his thick head before the Hales murder him for trespassing.

But no one comes to the door. Stiles just stands there, with that dumbass knocker in his hand, and stares at the thick wooden door. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe Derek Hale didn’t come home, and he’s still hanging out somewhere at the school, hiding from Stiles.

Shit. Maybe Stiles really is stalking the guy.

He drops the brass ring and starts to turn when he hears the same melancholy melody from before drift past him. Derek is here, somewhere, and Stiles is _not_ leaving without some answers. Taking a deep breath, he grabs the door handle and turns it.

He doesn’t know what he expects, but the door just swings open without a sound. There are no dead bodies hanging from the ceiling, and Peter Hale isn’t waiting on the other side to scalp him and barbeque his remains for supper.

Stiles takes a step past the threshold. Light floods through the house, warm and bright, and there’s absolutely nothing creepy about the inside. It’s the complete opposite from the exterior, and for a moment Stiles is pretty sure he’s somehow been transported to a different place, because there’s no way that the haunted Hale house looks this inviting on the inside.

He half expects the walls to be adorned with antique oil paintings, or period busts of old Hale family members, or something to show that his murder-house is the same one from the town-wide horror stories, but there’s nothing like that inside. It looks like someone ripped a page right out of a Home and Gardens magazine, overstuffed couches and all.

“Derek?”

The circular staircase in front of him winds up and up, farther than the outside structure should let it, and Stiles tries not to think about how impossible this architecture is as he starts to climb. He’s been dreaming for months about a guy he just met a week ago, so really, the architecture is the least worrying thing going on right now.

“Derek?” He calls again, and his voice bounces back at him against the tall ceiling.

The violin’s music keeps swirling around him, covering him in its depressing melody, and Stiles can’t figure out where it’s coming from. It sounds like Derek should be right there beside him, the instrument tucked beneath his chin, playing directly into his ear. But Derek’s not here, and Stiles is pretty sure the house is empty.

“I thought I told you not to follow me.”

Music still floods the house, and Stiles freezes on the staircase. He whirls around, eyes wide, half expecting Derek to materialize out of thin air behind him. But it’s still just him, standing alone on the winding staircase, staring into nothingness.

“You should know by now that I’m not very good at following directions.”

Derek doesn’t respond. Stiles stumbles back down the stairs and into the living room next to it. The pain in his head flares up again, a stabbing feeling behind his right eye. He all but collapses into one of the overstuffed suede chairs, and suddenly the music stops. The house is silent, like it’s waiting for something spectacular to happen, for something (or some _one_ ) to crawl out from beneath the floorboards and rip Stiles to shreds.

“Derek?”

Nobody answers. Stiles’ voice echoes back to him, the only sound in the house. He stares at the glass-topped coffee table, covered with old, well-thumbed books and empty mugs. His head throbs. Stiles leans his head back against the chair, exposing his neck to the empty living room, which is totally something Bella fucking Swan would do, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

He’s exhausted. His head hurts. And he really doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

“If you’re gonna kill me, can you hurry up? My head is hurting somethin’ awful, and if you don’t end my life, I might just do it myself. Y’all got swords here? Guns? I’ll take just about anything at this point.”

Because Stiles is Stiles, he continues to babble into the empty living room. Maybe wherever Derek is, it’ll spur him to go ahead and come out and rip his throat out or whatever. Stiles is seriously debating whether or not he’s going crazy when he hears someone clear their throat from the archway leading to the foyer.

Derek glares half-heartedly at Stiles. He looks pale, like he did earlier in the hallway, but his eyes aren’t glowing or anything, so maybe Stiles won’t be getting murdered today. Stiles sags into the chair and watches Derek through half-lidded eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

Stiles waves his hand around, trying to move as little as possible. It must be the light making his headache worse. Or maybe it’s, like, really dusty in here and it’s aggravating his allergies. He pointedly decides to ignore the pristine condition of the furniture, and the obvious lack of aging, dusty surfaces.

“I want answers, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

The windows in the living room rattle as a loud clap of thunder rumbles overhead. Derek doesn’t seem to notice. He just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, and stares Stiles down.

“Whatever you say.” Stiles shrugs a little, eying Derek suspiciously. “What’s that song you were playing? I’ve heard it before.”

“Lacrimosa.”

Okay, cool. One for one. Maybe this won’t be like pulling teeth.

“What’s going on with the storms? It’s like they follow you.”

Derek doesn’t respond to that one. He just keeps staring at Stiles, his face in an unreadable mask, and doesn’t make any motion to move. The thunder rumbles outside again, and Stiles is torn between being seriously pissed and seriously freaked out. His head is still throbbing, he still doesn’t have any answers, and he’s still in his smelly lacrosse jersey in Derek Hale’s living room.

Good. Hopefully, his stench will sink into the suede, and Derek will be down a chair. Serves him right.

“Are you going to tell me?”

Derek squares his shoulders. “Tell you what?”

“What’s going on.” Stiles motions towards the windows, where the rain is picking up again.

“It’s not me,” Derek says slowly, his gaze flickering to the window. It’s hard to see outside since the ivy is so thick here, but Stiles can see slivers of lightning every now and then.

There’s a long silence. Derek steps into the living room, moving closer to Stiles, but he doesn’t look at him. It’s like he’s walking without really thinking about it. Stiles sits in the chair, frozen, trying to focus on what Derek is saying.

“I don’t, like, control the weather or anything. The tree does that.”

“The tree?”

Derek nods but doesn’t elaborate.

“So,” Stiles leans forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. He watches Derek’s face, looking for any sign of recognition, anything to show that Derek’s been afflicted by this. “Does this tree also control the dreams?”

“Probably,” He says without thinking. Derek flinches and looks at Stiles, stricken, his expression full of surprise and hurt like he’s been slapped across the face.

Stiles has been right all along, then.

“You’ve been having them too.”

Derek turns his head away, hiding his face.

“Is that all you have to say?” Stiles winces a little, lifting one of his hands to rub at his temple. “You knew what I was talking about the whole time, and you, what, just let me stumble along like an idiot? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t want you to know.” Derek doesn’t look at Stiles as he says it, just keeps staring across the room. “I thought they were just dreams. I didn’t know you were actually a real person. My life is pretty fucked up, and I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“Cool motive, I guess. But still, you dickface!” Derek actually looks at him after that, his eyebrows doing some sort of weird hurt-angry scrunch. “My head’s been killing me forever, and it won’t stop storming, and you’ve known about all of this since you got here. Once you knew it was me, and I wasn’t, like, some figment of your imagination, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it’s not me!” Derek groans in frustration. He takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I told you, it’s the tree.”

Right. The tree. The magical tree that can control the weather and, apparently, manifest dreams into Stiles and Derek’s subconscious. He doesn’t know what to say. What’s the correct thing to say when you break into someone’s house, lounge on their furniture, and reveal that some tree is controlling your life?

Derek puts his glasses back on and looks at Stiles. He gets down on the floor, kneeling in front of the other boy. He reaches a hand out towards Stiles, tentatively at first, like he’s afraid of what might happen, but then his face shifts into a hard line and he’s shoving Stiles’ knee down. The sole of Stiles’ sneaker flattens against the floor. He must have been bouncing his knee. It’s a nervous thing.

When Derek’s hand shifts a little, his fingertips brushing against the exposed part of his knee past the hem of his basketball shorts, there’s a jolt of _something_ that rushes through Stiles’ body. He sucks in a sharp breath. It’s not painful. It’s like earlier, the electricity, buzzing just beneath his skin.

Derek looks at Stiles like he can’t believe what’s happening. Stiles just stares at Derek’s hand, still on his knee, and tries to ignore the warmth spreading from the point of contact. He shivers with electric goosebumps, which sounds bizarre, but that’s the only way Stiles can describe the feeling.

It takes a few moments of them sitting there, not moving, for Stiles to realize his head isn’t hurting anymore. The sound of rain on the shutters has faded, and Stiles can’t hear anything but his heart hammering in his ears.

“Dude, what the hell is going on?”

“Don’t call me dude.” Derek blinks a few times, whatever spell that had fallen on them obviously broken, and removes his hand from Stiles’ knee. But the pain doesn’t come back, and Stiles hears a bird chirping outside, not thunder.

“You don’t know what you’re getting in to, Stiles. You should leave before anything else happens.” Derek pauses and stands back up, looking down at him. “Before you get hurt.”

And, wow, cryptic much? Stiles just stares at him, his mouth hanging open a little in shock. “Du- Derek. I’m already in this shit. I’ve been dreamin’ about you for _months_ , for fuck’s sake! I think I deserve to know what’s going on.”

Derek winces at that. “You don’t need to know anything, Stiles. Trust me.”

“This isn’t a teen sci-fi novel, dumbass.” Stiles spits out, standing up from the chair. “And you sound like a fucking fortune cookie. What’s up with that?”

He’s suddenly way too close to Derek, all up in his space, their chests almost touching. But he doesn’t back down. He just stares right at Derek, right into those weird pale eyes, the same eyes that seem to change color depending on the lighting, their noses just a breath apart. They’re almost the same height, Derek just a few inches taller, but Stiles doesn’t let that intimidate him.

Hell, if Derek was going to kill him, he’d have done it by now. Right?

Derek works his jaw and doesn’t say anything for a few moments. Then he sighs and takes a step back, out of Stiles’ personal space, and the weird panicky electric feeling underneath his skin dies down a little. Derek tilts his head to the side like he can hear something that Stiles can’t, then he frowns.

“I think you should leave now. Before it’s too late.”

“Again with the crypticness. Okay, Bruce Wayne. I get it. Your mysterious, leather-clad, bad boy image is intact.”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“ _Stiles._ ” He practically growls, his eyes bleeding a bright, unnatural blue.

Stiles stumbles backward, tripping over the suede chair and nearly toppling over into the coffee table. The familiar feeling of panic flares hot in Stiles’ gut, and he suddenly can’t breathe. He keeps stumbling back, and Derek follows him, slowly, like he’s stalking Stiles. Like he’s _hunting_ Stiles.

So Stiles does what anyone would do. He runs. He’s out of the front door and practically falling down the front porch steps before his eyes have adjusted to the light. He keeps running, down the gravel path, away from the haunted Hale house, away from whatever the hell Derek is. He runs to the safety of Scott’s car, to the dingy smell of stale sweat and old fast food, to something, _anything_ from before Stiles started losing his mind.

He doesn’t care where he’s heading as he digs the keys out of his pocket and jams them into the ignition. He doesn’t look in the rearview mirror as he turns the car around and starts racing down the road, but he knows what’s back there.

Two glowing blue eyes, watching him leave from the safety of the treeline.

If Stiles breaks a few (like, seven) traffic laws as he speeds home, well, no one pulls him over for it. It’s probably because everyone at the station already knows Stiles is in some deep shit, and, God bless them, they don’t slap a ticket on top of it all.

If only they knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mozart's Sequentia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MQf-86ikvM)


End file.
